The boy wearing red shorts had no clue what he was doing, but he pushed onward into the dense underbrush. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten outside. He didn't recall the Sun having set either, and he didn't know how the blood got onto his shoes. A tree branch smacked across his face, after having been begrudgingly shoved aside, leaving a small trickle of blood trailing down the boys cheek. He wiped it away.
"Well," he thought to himself, "at least I know where that blood came from."
His cheek stung, and even though he wasn't afraid of being in the forest at night alone, he began to cry a little. It wasn't really all that painful, but the shock of the hit and the slight pain were enough to overwhelm his patience with the situation; his tears were mainly from frustration. The soft light of a Half-Quarter Moon shone just brightly enough that he could see the glistening wetness of his tears dropping onto his open palms. On one hand the tears were pink