Haunted Wood Hosts of the Air

Though the word "everything" would have summed up his grievances with the world quite simply, he felt like the stranger wanted more out of him. His family, his own blood, had abandoned him. They'd left him in some place to die, where he would only know war. His siblings barely noticed him, the others didn't seem to care. He had grown apathetic defensively; if they didn't care, why should he? Death, or "Almight" which he liked better, was an intelligent soul in a broken frame, never to be put on a wall.

He sat, quietly, as the ghost approached to touch him. Only in his infancy, when his mother had still been around, had he felt the warm touch of another. He blinked at this revelation, the slightest hint of something warm behind his cold stare. They say my father is dead. He told with little to no emotion. And my mother hasn't come to fetch me. Not that he had had a strong connection with the woman. It's like I'm not even here. Not really. All was told in a croaky, monotone voice. He truly felt nothing thinking about this, other than exhaustion. He couldn't miss what he never had, and he felt no anger towards the woman that had granted him this suffocating existence.