T H E _ B O O G E Y M A N
The shadows will eat you, devour you, and break you until there is nothing left. Without the Boogeymen, there would be nothing left but nightmares in the wake of the shadows.
He was a tall man. A little bit lean, but all the more better to squeeze into tight spaces. He wore a black suit, the very business-sort of suit and carried about a little metal suitcase. By day, he was Vince Riddle. By night, he was the Boogeyman.

The assignments came in little slips of paper beneath his door. On a little three-by-three yellowing paper, its edges worn and curled, a scribbly black handwriting spelled out a name and address. The Boogeyman would arrive just moments before sundown and he'd hide. Tonight, it was young Lux. A little boy of five. This one was strange - the shadows were unusually attracted to Lux. The Boogeyman had already visited Lux several times and each time, there would be more and more shadows. Just the slightest bit frustrated, the Boogeyman prepared his suitcase and set out for Lux.

This night was just like any other night with Lux. The Boogeyman had managed to keep the shadows at bay for now but as the sun dipped below the horizon and darkness cast over the room, he wondered if his efforts would be enough. But with Lux asleep now, he'd need to work fast and fast he did. A small click and the suitcase popped open. Inside, three glass jars and a silver net. Taking ahold of the handle of the net in one hand and a jar in the other, the Boogeyman peeked out from the closet and peered at the dark room. He could sense them. The shadows were coming.

And like a snake, pitch black curled from 'neath the windows and 'neath the door. They slithered across the wooden floors, curling up the bed posts, and looming over the sleeping child. It was massive, bigger than before and clearly looking for a meal. But the Boogeyman was determined and with a small wave of his hand, he sliced through the shadows with his net and forced them inside the jar. To the naked eye, the jar would only be black. But to the Boogeyman, it was more than a sea of black. He could hear their raging screams, the way they'd slam against the jar, and he could see the misty curls of their tail, their horrid forms.

While the child slept, the Boogeyman caught the shadows and filled the jars. When all was said and done, he left without a trace. He was nothing more than a bad dream. The Boogeyman would always return home and to the room hidden behind a bookcase. Tonight was no different for he entered the secret room where bookshelves lined the walls, filled with jars of shadows. Three more shadows to his collection and the Boogeyman would call it a night. He tucked away his suitcase, neatly hung his suit in his closet, and donned a loose button-down white shirt and dark trousers. The sun was peeking from the window, a little flutter of its rays dashing across the floor. It was day and he was no longer the Boogeyman. He was Vince Riddle.

Just below his home, a small apartment, there was a coffeeshop. Vince Riddle was the barista. He always opened at nine AM-sharp. Then slowly, his employees would trudge inside. They'd yawn and greet Vince with a tired smile. Then, his regulars would slink inside. It was always the same thing.

Mrs. Jorge, with her walking cane, from the flower shop across the street would come in and there would be a steaming cup of latte - three sugars and a half-cup of milk - waiting on the counter.

Mr. Jacobs, with his bowler had and disheveled suit from the office just down the street would order: pancakes and eggs, sunny-side up, and a cup of hot chocolate on the side.

And like this, the years passed. Mrs. Jorge and Mr. Jacobs would frequently tell Vince how he looked like he never ages - such youth, they'd say. With every year, it became harder for Mrs. Jorge to walk, to come to his shop everyday. But there was nothing Vince Riddle could do about it, for it was not his job to interfere with death - that was the job of the Grimm Reaper. Eventually, Mrs. Jorge passed. It was at night and the Boogeyman had come to bid her soul farewell. The Grimm Reaper, always on time, gathered the small glowing orb into its hand but before he left, the Boogeyman called him out.

"Take care of her," he had told him. "Please."

Without a response, the Grimm Reaper spared a few moments to peer at the Boogeyman before vanishing. The Boogeyman didn't know what happened after that. All he knew was that Mr. Jacobs was very sad. And the Boogeyman? Perhaps he was sad. Perhaps it was why his heart had squeezed until it was painful and why little drops of water fell from his eyes. But there was one thing that never changed.

Lux.

It had been ten years since. Lux was a University student now and the shadows still chased after him every night. Vince no longer received assignments for other children. Every night, it was always the same: Lux. Vince Riddle watched Lux grow up - watched his room slowly change from the masses of car toys to books and posters. Right before his eyes, Lux grew up.

Lux would be working at his coffee shop today. Vince had already met him once. To speak to him face to face was different. At night, he would only see the sleeping face of Lux but just the other day, they had spoken. Lux's voice was different than he imagined, a little deeper and smoother. His smile was different too - more lively than the one in his imagination.

It was eleven AM, about time for Lux to show up.

The a f t e r l i f e went like this:

A human passes and their soul is left behind, a small orb of light filled with memories and all the sorts of things that made one human. Then came the Grim Reaper, donning a black cloak and a silver scythe. With his scythe, he'd raise his arm and with one swing, he'd slice the connection between soul and body. And just like this, he'd take the little orb into his hand and hold it close. He'd breathe in and the memories would flow in like a great river washing over him. Then he'd make a decision: Heaven or Hell. Mind you, the Grim Reaper was only doing his job because that was all it was to him: a job.

Another one had passed and this one was a little different. It was small, smaller than the rest. Like always, he raised his arms and swung it down. The sharp metal blade of his scythe sliced through the connection between body and soul. He gathered up the little orb of light into his grayed hands and held it close. But nothing. What was this? The Grim Reaper held up the orb and inspected it - and oh? It was not quite real, yet not quite fake. It pulsed so gently in his palm, its little light dancing shadows across his face. It was an empty little thing, no thoughts of its own, no predetermined path, no future, no past - because it was man-made.

Then, they were at Elysium. One door to heaven, the other to hell, and the last to the abyss beyond.

The Grimm Reaper, a tall fellow, was cloaked in shrouds of black. To ease the souls he gathered, he was bestowed a gentle, heart-shaped face with thick lashes surrounding empty eyes, just a black slate of white, a straight nose that perked up ever so slightly at the bottom and full cherry lips against grayish skin. Beneath the thick hood that shaded over his eyes were strands of black locks that curled so subtly at the bottom and brushed just above his eyes. He held out his hand and the little soul, so small, floated just above his palm. Its light pulsed and it spoke:

"Where am I?"

He did not respond right away, a lengthy pause in between, and paused in his steps. No longer were they in the empty space of Elysium, but what looked to be a room. There were two velvet couches and a glass table in front of the Reaper, a bed to the side, and and a desk beside it.

"Nowhere," he responded. His voice was quiet and lulling, like a small whisper as though it had been eons since he'd last spoken.

Like this, he left the little man-made soul on the glass table and vanished. He did not know what to do with it.

T H E _ L I G H T _ I N _ T H I S _ W O R L D
He could feel their hands grabbing at his body. They were unkind hands, so cruel. They laughed at him, their voices like sharp blades slicing through his mind. The one who he'd punched took favor in throwing some punches at Fin in a fit of revenge. One to his stomach, another to his side, one to his face, and a final one to his back. He felt warmth dribbled down from his nose and the sharp metallic smell of blood fill his nostrils. He could still hear it.

The cars were still moving, still driving by. The people - oh the people - he could hear them. They murmured amongst themselves and not a single person tried to help. He could hear the click of heels pass by him. Was it so wrong to be blind? So wrong to be different? He already knew that he was different, his sexuality, his disability and by heavens, Fin had already spent every waking moment of his life wishing somewhere in the back of his mind that he could be like any other person on Earths. That he could see. But the world was a cruel, cruel god-forsaken place. "Leave me alone!" Fin raised his arms to shield himself.

But nothing.

That familiar musky scent filled his nose. "E-Ethan...?" Fin hesitantly called. His heart pounded in his chest and his hands reached out. Why couldn't he see? In Fin's world, it was just a sea of nothing, emptiness. His hands reached out and touched the sidewalk. His fingers felt the rough grooves of the ground and it etched a little picture into his mind. He was on the ground. But that was all, there was only so much his fingers could pick up. Where was his cane? His cane - Fin's eyes teared. He was so fucking useless. He was a waste of oxygen in this world, a piece of trash, just another piece of plastic piling up in the garbage. His heart clenched and his chest constricted.

I w a n t t o s e e.

Something pressed into his hand and Fin gasped, sharply pulling away, his entire frame trembling like a shaking leaf. Slowly, he let himself close his fingers around the thing - his cane. He pulled back, holding his cane to his chest. His breath came out in sharp intakes, audible and loud.

Finnegan Price was very, very afraid. What a cruel world.

Then, thick arms wrapped around his form and at first, he resisted. Then that musky scent of sweat and hospitals filled his nose and Fin slumped into his embrace. "E-Eth-Ethan!" he blubbered, his tiny hands clutching Ethan's shirt. "I-I'm so-so sorry!" Fin held onto Ethan like a drowning man, clutching onto him with all his might until his nerves calmed and he could hear the pounding of Ethan's heart against his ear. Thank God there was at least one person who cared.

"I can walk," Fin murmured. His legs were wobbly, shaken up by the entire ordeal. It had been a very long time since he'd been picked on like that.

He later found himself in a taxi, the soft rumble of the car almost soothing to his broken frame. "Talk to me," Ethan held onto Fin's hand, "I dunno if I had a chance to tell you but I'm a doctor. You may need to go to the hospital."

Fin squeezed Ethan's hand, finding comfort in even the smallest touch. "I'm fine," he muttered, "I'm used to it. Just bruises. Nothing's broken." Fin reached up to rub his nose, wincing as he did. It wasn't broken but it hurt like hell. They drove in silence for a while until Fin spoke.

"Your left leg..." Fin reached his right hand out, breaking away from Ethan's hold, and pressed it against Ethan's left knee. "You walk with a limp, I could tell. And you smell like the hospital. Your hands are rough, calloused." Fin grabbed Ethan's hand again and pressed his hand over the roughened skin. "When you talk, you have a sort of tone. But it's not as strong like the others," Fin clasped his hands together in his lap, "So I thought maybe it had been in the past - a veteran. I'm sorry." He chewed on his lip. "I always say the wrong thing. I'm so - so stupid." He touched his watch, tracing over the little bumps over and over again like a silent mantra.

Five hours, forty-three minutes, his watch said, until his concert.

He reached up to adjust his glasses then remembered they had been broken in the process. Sucking in a sharp breath, he let his hand fall to his lap and rapidly blinked his eyes. No matter how many times he opened and closed his eyes, he'd never see the world the way Ethan or anyone else did.