The Other World (Prologue)

This story is not about the haves and have nots. It doesn't endorse any one particular viewpoint; in fact, this story strives to represent many views and beliefs. This story is about how striving for perfection actually drives us closer to corruption, and no one extreme is better than any other.
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They were screaming again.

He hated it when they screamed.  It made his arm throb.  They'd broken his arm five years ago, and still he had those phantom pains. He huddled in the corner of his room, staring at his cracked, dirty door.  The security chain was broken, one half hanging against the door and the other half still in the locked position. The flimsy door lock in the handle didn't even fully turn.  The only new thing in his room was the deadbolt he'd gotten his hands on only a week earlier.

A dull, wet thud.

Another one, this time a sickening crunch.

Silence.

It was deafening.

The boy in the corner stood up. He grabbed his patched, threadbare backpack from under his bed.  He ripped the rotting boards out of his window, the boards he'd wedged in there when someone had tossed a brick in his window. The boy paused for just a moment, a foot on the window sill, staring down at the street below.

Footsteps.

The boy dropped, hit the ground, and rolled forward in one smooth motion.  He got back on his feet and took off.

He didn't look back.