Darkness

A/N: There are some dark themes in this story, although touched upon very lightly. If you are uncomfortable with such themes, please leave. 
The names used are of Indian origin, and they do happen to mean something. There is a glossary of a sort included in the analysis in the next chapter.
This is the very first story I'm publishing to Wattpad. Have fun reading; critique and comments are very much appreciated!
~Jai

Darkness. People said that's what he's always seeing, darkness.

"Can I help you?" they'd say. He'd nod in politeness.

"What's your name?"

"Roshan," he'd say.

Then they'd chuckle a bit, very quietly, but Roshan would always hear it.

"It must be hard for you. Not being able to see all the time. Seeing darkness all the time."

But Roshan liked the darkness. It led him to places, it was welcoming. He often let the darkness envelop him, caress him, or more than often, sing him to sleep

Roshan heard shouts of laughter, buzzing through the air like ecstatic sparks gone wild. Roshan never got the chance to laugh; it haunted him like a privilege being taken away, tantalizingly out of reach.

He allowed the darkness to lead him to the source, only using his one companion, a bamboo stick found on the roadside, to prevent him from tripping over the gravel-laden roads.

He was in the middle of a moving crowd now, where the cheers and joy of after-school freedom were coming from. He could feel bodies swerving around him, trying to take a detour around an annoying obstacle. He was only a nuisance here.

Before he realized it, a sudden violent force threw him onto the asphalt, sending sharp daggers of pain into his torso. He winced at the jarring, metallic taste of blood in his mouth and the disheartening sound of his makeshift walking stick rolling away.

Staggering, he got onto his knees and started crawling around aimlessly, in hopes of finding his lost guide. He counted on the darkness to lead the way.

He felt a callused hand grab hold of the back of his dusty shirt, and Roshan dared not to move, otherwise, he would only distance himself further away from his walking stick. A restless silence settled around him; a crowd was forming.

A husky, sinister voice whispered harshly into his ear, "X marks the spot, doesn't it?" A finger traced a cross on his back, a strong punch landing there, and Roshan helplessly doubled over, deafened by the jeering of the surrounding audience.

"Nirday!" a female voice cut through the commotion. "Why would you do such a thing! Stop it!"

"Nirday, please cut it off. He's just a poor kid," said an accompanying male voice. He sounded nice.

Roshan heard Nirday growl, mutter something distasteful and proceed to rudely stomp off.

Then, he felt his bamboo stick placed into his scratched palm, and a wave of assurance washed over him.

The girl's voice spoke to him gently, "I'm Karuna and this is my brother Natraj. Don't worry, it's ok, we're here to help. What's your name?"

Roshan decided not to speak. He always avoided to except at the rehabilitation center because it brought him no good. A supportive hand on his shoulder felt like a boulder of a burden. The voice of a person offering help sounded like nails on a chalkboard. And the person who says, "It's ok," is the worst of all.

It's never ok. It's never ok.

"We understand how it feels, we're with you. Nirday is a big idiot who's full of himself," Karuna said.
You will never understand. They never understand. Roshan was shivering now; he felt weak.

"We're here for you."

They're here for me. He felt a tear run down his cheek, and then another. He felt around for a hand he could reach for. They're here for me. His hand met Karuna's.

They're here for me, right? Roshan should've been defiant, indifferent, but he moved forward and hugged her, hugged her tight, burying his crying face into her shoulder. Right?

He felt the warm touch falter, the one social gesture he attempted to give in to, being pulled away. Away from him. They aren't here for me. They're never here for me.

"Natraj, what are you doing! We need to help-"

"We need to go, Karuna." After a moment, he added in a whisper, "He's hopeless, there's no point. Now, let's go."

It was a whisper not meant to be heard by Roshan. But he always heard it. It was a curse.

He heard Karuna let out a stifled "No", but that was it. He felt the siblings' presence disappear, and he was alone again, alone with the darkness.

In the chilly air, he felt the rustle of the tarp, his home. Roshan's tear-streaked face burnt in the frigid wind as he heard the distinct sound of the wooden rattling of his walking stick. He left it on the other side of the road.

Roshan bent down to pick up a rock, hopefully as sharp as the hearts that touched him. He ran his rough finger over the scars on his arm, the countless attempts.

'X' marks the spot, doesn't it?

Roshan took the rock and severed the skin on his wrist. It hurt, but the pain was hollow and shallow, floating above his thoughts.

He smiled gently for the first and last time as sleep came now easily after the restless insomnia. Roshan laid down on the plastic sheet and closed his eyes.

The light was gone. After all, it was only him and the darkness in the end.

Afterword: I hope you found this short story entertaining to read, even though it ends on a sour note. If you wish, you can move onto the next chapter which essentially an analysis and some insight behind some of the ideas in the short story.
~Jai