The nameless boy
He loved the carnival.
The bright colors, the Ferris wheel, the smell of butter and cinnamon, the sound of laughter.
He was only allowed to leave once a week. They didn't follow him because they knew he'd return-he had nowhere else to go.
And he always went to the carnival. He had no money to go on the Ferris wheel, to taste the butter and cinnamon, to laugh with the other kids he was never able to play with.
But he could still see the colors.
The bright reds, yellows, and oranges of the rides and tents, the baby blue of the sky, the rich, luscious grass.
Once a week he could see it.
He could take the beatings, the ever searing pain of hunger, and the non-stop work in the pitch black dark, because once a week he got to see the colors.