Disclaimer: The Lost Boys belongs to Warner Bros.

Note: I had to get this little story out of my brain.

Milk Carton

At the edge, he stands behind the fence, watching, clutching the metal links tightly.

Sunset is now a memory. The mother brings out the birthday cake, lit with bright candles that do not dispel the night. The children gather around, their little voices singing.

While the girls and boys ignore him, he looks on. He wonders if he recognizes any of them. From face to face he sees someone he thinks he knows, remembers, yet a part of him says no, you don't remember, they don't remember, you don't even remember your mommy's face.

Mama, mom, ma - are names that leave a longing in his mind and a gaping hole in his chest where his small heart beats feebly, shuddering with something not human. Did my mom bake a birthday cake for me?

He longs for a fleeting taste of sweetness, because all he knows is salt and bitter copper warmth; it is a small taste of what is to come when he joins his older brothers, when he finally becomes a monster.

Do monsters long for what they've loved and lost?

What if the children notice him and come closer? He is not afraid. He wants to stay longer and feel what it's like to run and yell with the boys, to laugh and play with the girls, or perhaps steal a first kiss from one of them, but he knows he will only make them cry.

Isn't that what monsters do?

xXx

Empty chairs and empty plates are all that is left of the party. Picking up an empty milk carton, the little girl looks toward the creek.

There is a little boy behind the fence that runs along the bank of the creek that flows at the foot of their backyard, and where mother told her daughter to be always careful. He is there, in the shadows, watching her, and she wonders why he is alone.

Perhaps he wants to play.

Should I invite him in?

She asks her mom, who consents, because she sees the little boy too; something tugs at her heart. Give him a piece of cake, he must be hungry, and I'll pour him a glass of milk, since he looks thirsty.

A secret part of her wonders if she will see his face on the milk carton.

xXx

He is always thirsty, thirsty for warmth, for the salty, coppery taste of the drink that gives him dreams of flying and of living forever.

It's so much better than sunshine and sugar says laughing brother, all wild hair and blue eyes, who made the mistake of bringing him in, too young to fully understand what is in store for him, yet the little boy does not blame him.

He understands.

To the monster that laughs behind his merry blue eyes, everything is a game, even death, but deep down, there is an almost forgotten and very lonely boy longing for someone to play with.

x

The shortest brother looks different; his curling hair frames a baby's face. He is not loud nor is he boisterous, and in his own quiet way, he fills the boy with dread.

And the thing he dreads above all when he is alone with him is his smile, which is bleak and empty, his cherub lips lying, hiding a shark's grin instead.

He understands.

Little brother has no time for children, only prey. The thrill is in the stalking and the chase that always ends in screams. It makes the monster within him scream with delight.

I scream, you scream, we all scream.

x

The boy feels their presence above and behind him, a palpable menace deep in the shadows of the overhanging tree branches. The two wait patiently, watching him.

They are never far.

xXx

The little girl walks to him and in her hands is a paper plate with a piece of cake. As she approaches, he sees a shy smile dimpling one side of her face. He has never seen anyone so beautiful.

Her mother watches from the open kitchen window, gazing into the backyard to where her daughter is now leaving the safe halo of the patio lights. She notices the boy's face is pale, so pale that it stands out.

There is something familiar about him.

In her hand, she holds the milk carton, and as she is pouring the milk into the glass, she glances down at the picture of the missing.

xXx

There is an air of expectancy. The little boy looks up, trying to catch a glimpse of burning eyes or the glint of teeth among the black leaves. He knows they are waiting for him to act. Tonight will be the final step, yet he hesitates.

She's going to share her birthday cake with me.

His heart breaks at the thought of making her cry. He struggles against his growing thirst. It is almost too much for him, but his human side is stronger still. The waking monster within him is disappointed, so it returns to its restless slumber, for now.

As he backs away from the fence, he hears a subtle rustling in the trees above followed by a low, humorless chuckle. There will be no entertainment or a feast to share in for his brothers.

xXx

The twinkling sound of breaking glass distracts the girl enough for her to look away briefly. She can see her mother at the window, looking down. When she turns back, she sees the boy stepping away, his slight
figure receding into the darkness. She thinks about following him, but her mother is calling her to come back. In case the boy returns, she leaves the cake next to a small gap in the fence.

Inside, the little girl finds her mother picking up pieces of glass from a puddle of spilled milk. She tries to help clean, but she is not paying attention when she cuts her palm on a shard of glass. While her mother looks for bandages, she watches her blood pool then drip from her hand and into the milk. The falling droplets fascinate her, spreading and blooming on the surface like floating crimson roses.

The milk carton with its picture of a missing young boy lies on its side in the kitchen sink, forlorn and forgotten.

The End