Within: Chapter 1

A young boy, sly and sprightly, quivers in impatience like a willow sapling in the wind- he asks his father
"Why won't Mama wake up?"
The boy’s eyes glance to and fro from the black teak coffin that lays but a few steps from him and asks again,
"I don't get it, why is everyone else saying 'I'm sorry?'"
And the boy scrunches his brow, as his father looks at his little boy, big brown eyes tear stained with grief looming above a small chestnut brown face full of wonder and confusion and frustration.
"Mama's-” and he pauses, “Mama’s in a better place is all."
The boy, now bored and anxious, runs out in frustration; he doesn't understand what's going on, and so he climbs into the tree that stands high above the funeral home and looks out onto the lake and cemetery that towers high above the lush grasses and weathered tombstones. He closes his eyes as a gust of wind rocks the boughs, as it caresses him with a light touch like his mother would, as it whistles an angry wailing whistle and weaves and combs through iron trellises and gates and fences, as it climbs the cold and callous crumbling granite walls that surround the tombstones and funeral home.
The boy opens his eyes and stares into the leaves of the tree. He stares from the base of the giant old willow tree up to where he was sitting and sees a young girl. Her face is hidden, but he can't help but notice her hair. It shines, iridescent in the noontime sun; her hair a rich midnight black, purple sheen glowing in the noontime sun.
"Your mother's gone silly. They lie to you, you know. She's not sleeping." She declares.
And the boy rises, climbs up the tree, and asks with a wondrous curiosity tinged with sadness caught in his throat,
"So mama's not coming home?"  His voice cracks," She's like the ants we sprayed to keep the food safe?"
The little boy stares at the back of this little girls head, who is staring into the sky lit by the noontime sun. Tears drip from his little face and darken the bough beneath him. The little girl turns toward him ever so slightly, and the boy sees a small smile on her face that stands stark from her pallor-
"Why of course, Malta, she’s dead." She says.
And she hums a little lilting lullaby that slowly leaves his ears and grows distant as the world around him fades to white.
"Malta! Malta my boy!" Cries the fearful father as the boy opens his eyes wearily- the father cries as the boy rises, and the boy realizes with frightening alacrity that the people who talk amongst each other, surprised at the irony that his father would nearly lose his son at his wife's funeral, watch on with only passive interest. Their concern abandoned at the black teak coffin laid ominously, framed by sunlight through the windows of the funeral home.
"So Mama's dead?" Asks the boy.
The father pauses, dumbstruck at the foolhardy question.
"Don't lie to me papa." He states.
And he nods, In awe of the boy's sudden revelation.
And unbeknownst to the boy, unseen by all mortal and living- the girl as pale as winter's full moon with hair black like midnight crept from the tree with a little smile on her lips and walked forth from the spectacle of ambulance and crowd gathered to watch the young boy rise and glare at the world with newfound innocence lost.