Life is a beautiful moment that must be found.

That’s what they realized too late.

Basically, there is no true beginning to this story. I could think of a thousand ways to try to write everything that happened, but it just wouldn’t be possible to fit everything into this. There’s just not enough time.

There was never enough time.

But for the sake of this story, I’m going to begin with a single boy that escaped his life in search of a better one.

The boy, who was no more than 15, was an artist. You see, he painted the most beautiful pictures you could ever find. You would never see him outside his room, and if you ever did, consider yourself lucky. Only a few ever got to see him, and those who did will always tell you that his hands were stained with paint, and his cheeks with tears.

The boy, he painted his dreams. Now, you might be thinking that he probably the brushes to color luxurious things that he always desired. Gold. Riches. But this is not true.

The boy painted his dreams. He painted beautiful passages that often haunted his memory of a better past. He painted the summer sea, and a lone figure that stood on top of a bridge. He brushed across the canvas and formed a tunnel, with several teenage boys that ran with grins in their faces without a care of the world outside their own. He painted the moment where he ran away from home, escaping the shackles that his parents held on his freedom.

But most of all, he painted a bird. A simple sparrow hawk, with eyes the shade of the night sky, and with wings spread wide, flying towards the sky.

Sometimes, he wished he was the bird. He wished that he could simply open his wings, and fly away into whatever direction he wanted. But he couldn’t. He couldn't touch the sky. And he never would. So he just stopped trying.

Those days were truly the worst. The boy would lay in bed, unmoving, simply staring ahead into nothing as memories of his past flashed in the back of his mind. He would remember the others, their smiles, and how they are waiting for him to go meet them, once again, on their own little version of paradise in the form of each other's presence.

But then, he heard the crash of glass, felt a bruise blooming on the side of his face. He heard the screeching of tires, pained yells. He saw blood staining the roads, and a faint whistle in the background as he walked towards the fire that consumed everything in the house.

He hated the fire. He remembered how he used to find it mesmerizing, beautiful even. He remembered how another boy would hold a white lighter, their initials forever engraved on the sides. He remembered how that same boy would light the fire to burn all of his demons away. He remembered being surrounded by the others, arms around his body as they all watched the passive flames of a small bonfire. But after the accident, fire turned into his enemy. A beautiful weapon that took away everything from him.

He never used any orange on any of his paintings, only when he painted that day. But fire was everything to him. It was his beginning. It was his end.

But the rain, the rain turned into his shelter.

Sometimes, he could still feel the arms of a person surrounding his back, embracing him, bringing him to his true home. Sometimes, when he heard the rain, he remembered a train ride filled with memories, and how he watched the droplets run down the window as he listened to the others talking, a smile upon his face. He thought back to those days when they all went to adventures, not caring about the water staining their clothes. Simply caring about one another, and what life was going to bring next.

The day he truly gave up on everything, it was raining outside, the soft sounds of small drops of water hitting the ground was lulling his body to sleep. But his hand on the wooden brush could never stop moving.

It was then when he painted them for the first time.

There is no clear explanation as to who “they” are. Honestly, only he knows the true meaning.

People always say that when you pass by his room, sometimes all you can hear is small whimpers, and the faint whisper of “brother” being heard through the night.

But the boy, he simple painted those people. Anyone else would have thought that they belonged in his past, but to him, they meant everything. Only he knew that those teenage boys that surrounded him where his only true family. They were his true home.

But they left him, and now, all he has are their memories and the beautiful moments they shared. But they are not enough.

You see, the boy had been found by the side of the road, bleeding to death after being hit by a car. Just a few miles more, you would see a hoard of ambulances and fire trucks that tried to save some teenage boys stuck in a burning building. The casualties were announced on the news, but no distraught family members came. There were no funeral, no tears shed for those boys. No one ever knew them.

No one except for him. But even after they asked him about who they were, he would just look at you blankly, and say nothing.

But sometimes, sometimes he would draw you the answers.

He would pick up thin brushes, choose dark colors, and he would paint you his nightmares.

From broken mirrors, to faded photographs, to burning pianos. On the days that his shoulders ached from carrying the weight of the world, his hands would shake while trying to portray all the things that took away his youth.

But the doctors were confused about everything, just like you are.

And so, after a whole year with no progress, the doctors simply let him paint away in his room.

The boy thought that he would be able to reach the sky, to paint his dreams and have them come true, to just go to the sea, and find the beautiful moments in life. But everything was gone.

And he was wrong.

They called him Patient 701, and the boy’s name continues to be unknown to this day. People have looked, but they couldn’t find anything. The hospital itself never had any record on this boy, and if it weren’t for his silent presence and constant creations, one could argue that he wasn’t even real.

But then again, how do we know that he truly does exist?