Disturbia

The rusty swing set creaked, the unoccupied wooden seats rotten and the ropes frayed. The sand blew in small clouds, billowing up from the hard packed earth, whispering past the buildings who were old and crumbling from neglect. A sign hung from the stained plaster wall, advertising an illegible brand name.
The town was still with the loudest silence he had ever heard. The very foundations smelled like alcohol and dried blood.
He stood tall and straight, his overly-large white shirt falling over his slim shoulders. His skin was calloused and scarred, caked with dirt. His hair, dark as pitch, was crested with filth. The boy was barely eight years old, and yet he stood there in the center of Disturbia with eyes as old as time. They shone like a faded painting of the sea.
The boy crumpled slowly, falling to his knees. He was a soul long forgotten, left behind, alone, completely alone, in a world where nobody understood.
In a world called Disturbia.