The sound of a raindrop hitting the sidewalk. Why do we dismiss the sound of a single drop within the smattering of many? Why do we disregard it as another pointless background noise to the audio track that is our life?
This was the very thought that Alfred mused with as he stared at the overcast sky from his perch at the window, pondering what could have lead him to live such a dismal life. Flashes of memories, small bursts of light within the greyness, always seemed to find their way into the forefront of his mind, but never was a memory complete--each small recollection was merely a fragment, insignificant as a single droplet's sound, holding similar insignificance to the single raindrop that he held within his mind's eye. A small sigh escaped his lips, and he closed his eyes, tired and gray with the dullness that comes with age.
Into the Madness: Sound

"Alfred."

A voice.

"Alfred, love."
The voice had an edge, persistent in its attempts to rouse the boy from slumber. Again and again, this name—Alfred, was repeated. The voice’s pitch had raised several octaves since its first cry, and it was no longer the breathy whisper it originally was. It became hysterical, choked with sobs, crazed. The voice was pleading, crying, begging.

"Alfred, child."
The voice had hushed from its violent screeching, returning to its original murmur, and now seeming to bear all the pain and sorrows of the world.

Don't be worried.
He didn't know why, but he felt his heart ache at the sound of this voice. He wanted to physically reach the holder of it; he wanted to comfort her. Or at least, he believed the voice belonged to a "her."

"Darling, Alfred won't wake," the voice continued, and he realized that the voice was not the only one present with him.

"Don't worry, love. He's simply tired," a gruffer, masculine voice replied in what seemed to be an attempt to soothe the first.

Somehow, this voice sparked a new feeling within his subconscious. Could it have been... anger?

"B-but..." the original voice sniffled, "he was hurt quite badly. What if he never wakes?"
There was no reply. Yet, he heard the blowing of a nose; the patting of a back; the lulling sweet nothings that made a sense of revulsion wash over him. As they began to converse in hushed tones, Alfred strained to hear what the two voices were saying. He caught bits and pieces, and one thing was quite clear. Apparently, someone had suffered a grave injury. The reason—to him, anyways, was unbeknownst. Eventually, the original voice said something along the lines of farewell, and the sound of light foot falls leaving the room seemed to empty him. He felt hollow. However, he was still mildly aware of the man watching him, beady eyes analyzing him, sizing him up. Alfred didn’t move a muscle—how could he? He was hardly aware of his own consciousness, only mindful of the vibrations that formed sounds making their way to his ears.

"Heh. I know you're up, kid."
The statement surprised him. The man’s voice that had been consoling only moments before was suddenly a cruel snarl. But even more surprising was the red that crossed his vision, a prolonged signal that represented pain. Again, he was drawn to the line that bordered life and death, on the rim of a sensation beautifully dangerous. [That was the only way to describe the feeling that drew him close to the black line once more.] Somewhere in his body, detached from his mind, his nerves must have been screaming.

"Don't play stupid. Face me!”
As hazy red that had permeated his senses began to fade, the color of roses in bloom burst across his darkened vision several times. Just as he believed he’d been granted a reprieve, again and again, he was beaten. His body was at its limit, and it was soon to break. As the man was about to beat down upon him again, a single note pierced the air, a high pitched shriek that was sure to startle any assailant. At first, Alfred thought it had escaped his mouth; although, how, he could not know. However, it had come from another source, one whose footfalls he recognized to belong to the voice that had brought him to consciousness. His attacker was being repressed, and the sounds of a struggle taking place nearby could be heard.

“D-don’t you dare touch Alfred!”
“You’ve always seemed to care for the boy more than you care for me! He’s a hindrance!”

“Donovan, he’s our son!”
“Amy, he’s your son!”

The sound of hand to face contact shattered Alfred’s resolve. Whatever force that had been keeping him captive in slumber no longer had power over him. He snapped awake, and with a growl, he launched himself at his former attacker. It didn’t matter what he was doing; it didn’t matter that he was aching and throbbing and feeling pain in places he wasn’t formerly aware of. All that mattered was that he protected her.

“What’s the boy’s problem?!” Donovan yelled, trying to force him off, Alfred’s hold on him much too strong for him to break.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Alfred thought, ‘just don’t let go.’

White. Pink. Red. Purple. Blue.

The color of his face continued to change, similar to that of a chameleon’s. However, no one seemed to pay much attention, Amy looking at the two in disbelief; Donovan being asphyxiated; and Alfred being the one choking the life from him. As Alfred hung on, he could notice small details he hadn’t while unconscious. The strong scent of liquor on Donovan’s breath, the throbbing of Donovan’s pulse as the life ebbed from him; the iron salty taste of blood within his mouth; the sound of Donovan attempting in inhale, but failing to bring enough oxygen into his lungs. As his senses began to return to him all at once, a wave of nausea washed over him, yet he held firm.
Thud!

After what had felt like an eternity, he could feel Donovan’s descent to the floor, out cold. The scuffle was over. He used what little strength he had left to crawl towards Amy.

“Are you alright?”
“I-I’m fine,” her voice wobbled, tears streaming down her face.

“Good,” he exhaled, laying his head on her lap and extending a hand to wipe her tears away.

As his arm fell to his side and his jaw went slack, she simply stared at him; his jawline, his eyes as they fluttered to a close, his hair that fell across his face. He looked nothing like her. He acted nothing like her. And he was only a child. He’d grown up in such a short amount of time, given his age, and she felt pride surge in her chest—even if she was to blame for all his misfortune.

“I love you… And I’m so, so sorry.”