Another bit

Caspar found it easier to draw without planning or thinking… it just naturally came. Everything he drew was in perfect proportion, his tone precise, making his drawings life-like and 3D.
At that moment Caspar was drawing his foster carer’s son, Donny. He was a complete nutter. When he came back from “work” he was either drugged or drunk, sometimes both. He would make you clean his room or his on-suite, (Which usually had sick and piss all over the floor,) or else he would make up some terrible crime Caspar had done and tell the big cheese: Margret. Donny also got on very well with Fred, all too well for Caspar’s liking.
He drew Donny with a syringe in one hand and a half empty bottle of vodka in the other, crossed eyes and a blank expression.
He had just finished when his door flung open and Donny stood in the doorway. He looked a state (as usual.) He had lost a shoe, stripped to his underpants and had the smell of booze wafting from his pores.

Caspar panicked; he didn’t want Donny to see his drawing. He only had a split second to think, before he crumpled up the drawing and shoved it in his pocket.
Donny dropped to the floor. In that short space of time before falling, Donny had managed to break all the bones in his body. His arms and legs were tangled tightly together. His back bent in several different places. His neck was squashed in the space between his arm and his bum with his head poking out, crooked to one side. His face was the worst. His jaw had dislocated and had twisted up and round, causing him to bite his own nose of. One eye had turned inside out, the other hanging on by a thin nerve to where his cheek should be.

Caspar stood in shock as he watched the blood run down Donny’s face. He had to stifle a scream. With shaking hands he took out the drawing. He tried to straiten it out but he had little control over his hands and he knew it would be no use so he let it fall to the floor.
What he had done started sinking in. These things that had started happening only tonight were somehow linked to his drawing. But most importantly he had to get out before someone saw the corpse.
He had just murdered someone in his own room.
He pushed his light brown, scraggily hair of his forehead and legged it out of the house.

next bit...

Caspar sat back on his bed and stared at the crack between the door and the wall. He was scared. Fred slept in the room next to him. Caspar didn’t like Fred. Fred was a bully, the king of the bullies. Fred was going to slaughter Caspar when he got back, for not giving him his lunch money. Life just wasn’t fair. He’d already given one of Fred’s many minions his lunch money earlier that day and no doubt Fred would beat him up anyway for something else. They both hated each other’s guts.
Fred was a fat, hard, chav of a bully, with people paying him to not beat them up daily. Whilst Caspar was a loner, with only a few friends that would wet themselves, and run at the sight of someone like Fred. Caspar was made of tougher stuff (from his years of experience living on the streets.) Yet he still knew that someone like Fred was not the kind of person that you could mess around.
Caspar had big chocolate brown eyes whilst Fred had tiny pale blue eyes. Fred was stockily built whilst Caspar was slightly smaller and thinner. Caspar was thirteen now but Fred was almost fifteen.

Caspar took out his pen and sketchpad. He liked to draw. It made him relax and let him think straight. This was his talent - something that he was good at. He was a late starter at Maths, English and Science. He was catching up and could read and write fluently. He could do simple sums with addition, subtraction, multiplication and division. He didn’t understand science at all but he didn’t want to be a scientist so he didn’t mind much.

Yet he had a gift for drawing. It was as if something inside him were telling him to draw. Some say it was a gift, some say it was his “creative juices” or something like that. Caspar just decided he was good at it and left it at that.
He would draw Fred in cartoon style. Make his face really fat and make his eyes dots. Only just showing in the mass of flab. He gave him drawn back lips set in a constant snarl.
For the finishing touches he put a big red ring round his drawing with a diagonal line going through the portrait. He wrote just above it:
NO FRED’S.
And stuck it on the outside of his door. Realising to late, that this would only anger Fred more as he came upstairs and started thumping on his bedroom door.
“What do you think your playin’ at squirt?” Fred shouted. “Your not allowed to put locks on doors!”
Caspar stared. There were no locks on his door. He knew that his carers would make him take them of.
Fred had seen the picture now and was thumping even harder. He ripped it of the door and went falling through, into Caspar’s room.
Something weird had happened, Caspar concluded, whilst dragging a dazed Fred out of his room.
He took a few deep breaths and started drawing.

the first bit...

Caspar had been running for days. He was out of breath. He perched himself up against a wall at the station. This was the fifth time they had tried to put him into a children’s home. None of their attempts had succeeded, and he wasn’t willing for this one to be the first. He could hear them cluttering down the escalator now. There was nowhere to run. He looked around for a place to hide but there was nowhere.
They would find him. They would put him in a foster home where the other residents would bully him senselessly. He was dirty; he smelt of sweat, his face was stained with tears.

He was only three when his father died. His mum buggered of when he was born. He had learnt to fend for himself, but at the end of the day he was still a child. Only eight years of age.
They were almost at the doorway now. He could not escape. He slumped down onto the floor and burst into tears.