Birth of the Dead

He watched them from the shadows, saw them run around and play. The sweet sound of their laughter filled his head, and a sense of melancholy washed over him. He longed to go out there, to be among them, to be part of them. He wanted to jump, and hide, and shout, and do everything that they did, with them. Slowly, his feet started shuffling forward, dragging him out from his dark sanctuary, towards the cavorting boys and girls. He brought his hand up to shield his face from the sunlight, suddenly realizing he had gone too far. Quickly, he turned around and started scuttling back to his refuge.
"Look, everyone. Look who decided to join us," a shout came from behind. "Do you want to join us?"
He turned around slowly, a smile growing on his pale, white face, and nodded. Then sharp pain lanced through his head, and he fell down hard on the stony earth. A bloodied stone glistened next to him. He looked up and saw them, pointing at him, laughing haughtily. Anger welled up inside him, and his eyes burned red. He tried sitting up, but a shadow fell across him, and a shiny boot pressed down on his chest, pinning him to the ground. He looked up and saw a boy in a black tunic, worked with silver lace, standing over him, staring smugly.
The boy bent down, and grabbed him roughly by his torn, patched coat. "Did we hurt you?" he asked with feigned concern. More laughter filled the air, mocking him, chafing him. His blood boiled and suddenly he hated them. He hated all of them, standing there in their fancy clothes, deriving pleasure out of his humiliation. He wanted them to suffer for putting him through all this shit. He wanted them to burn alive. He wanted their skin to melt and scald their bones. And he wanted to hear them screaming, begging for death.
The boy hauled him to his feet, jerking him back to reality. "You are not wanted here, street rat. Go back to the sty where you come from."

It was the words, and not the cold look that the boy had given him, that hurt him most. Tears
stung his eyes, and he stumbled as he made his way back to his home. He remembered the happy times he had had with the boy, how many years they had spent playing together. And then the boy's parents had hit upon a fortune, and they had shifted into a large house, next to other rich families. Even then they had remained best of friends, the boy confiding in him, seeking advice about his problems, when he had everything but problems. Over the days, the visits had grown rarer, and the boy had made new friends. And now the boy had completely forgotten who he was. He wiped his eyes, and his home came into view, a medium-sized wooden structure, with a thatched roof, and a shaded porch. He rushed in, calling out to his mother, but no reply came. Then he heard a scream originating from his parents' room. Pulling back the thin sheet that served as a screen to their room, he stepped inside.
"Mother!" he shrieked, when he saw her lying on the floor, blood issuing from her multiple wounds in waves.
"Get out of here, you little freak," his father roared, swinging a broken bottle of ale, it's sharp edges wet with blood.
"What have you done?" he said, fists clenched.
"She got what was coming to her, and so will you," the man growled, advancing towards the boy menacingly.
Without warning, the boy charged into the man, and with all his strength, drove his fist into the man's stomach. Man and boy stared in horror, as the white fist sank slowly into the man's belly. He couldn't feel his father's flesh, or blood, or muscle, or organs, but he could feel the bones, calling out to him, asking to be realeased. Then his prying fingers felt something else, cold, yet at the same time, radiating power. His palm curled around it, and slowly, he pulled his hand out. His father tensed, and stood rigidly, eyes losing focus. He looked at his clenched fist and saw a smoky, insubstantial figure struggled to break free from his grip. And suddenly he knew he was looking at his father's soul. He looked at his father, knowing what would come next, as if he had known it his entire life. The colour drained from his father's face, the skin become cold and hard. Then the skin cracked, like glass, and blood seeped out through the cracks. The soul started shaking vigorously now, and the skin fell away like dust, revealing the bloodied bone structure beneath, along with muscles and organs. The soul was vivaciously trying to escape, but he knew that if he let it go, it would enter him. Organs and muscle detached themselves from the bones, leaving behind the standing skeleton of his father. It stood there dully, like a sentinel, without life. He raised his clenched fist towards the skeleton, and released the soul. Suddenly, the skeleton came to life, red light glowing in it's eye sockets, as the soul entered it. He could feel a new entity in his mind. He could see through it's eyes. He could control it.
"Fayne," his mother's voice whispered softly from behind. "Where are you my son?"
"I hate that name," he growled, irritated at being interrupted from his revelation. He bent down beside her, and noted, with satisfaction, the incomprehension on her face. Her breathing was shallow and her vision was blurring. She strained her eyes and looked at her son's face. It was dead, and cold, and his eyes burned red. She couldn't recognize him anymore. The blurring became worse, and it started becoming dark. She couldn't see her son's emotionless face, but his rasping voice floated in her head.
"My name is Ghost."