This is the story of a boy. A boy who didn't like to give out his name. He believed that names, like words, held high value. He believed that the things told to a person were sacred and should be treated as such.

This boy talked like he had been living for two hundred years instead of a mere twelve. He had eyes as wide as the world and a mouth as loud as a megaphone.

He talked with words longer than my arm and said them as if they themselves had been spun out of gold.

He dreamed of worlds where things like war did not exist, for war was all he knew. He had been born in a time where the world was at war with itself, killing thousands of people for power, land, and money. He believed that those three words were the words that could drive a sane man to insanity, a loving wife to hatred, a peaceful country to war.

And he was right.

You see, this boy was stuck in the middle of a war he did not start. But a war, nonetheless. He was part of the demographic that was being hunted like dogs, and pushed into playpens called camps.

He had to constantly move and hide with his family, a sister, a mother and a father. The only three people in the world he would go insane for, turn to hatred for, start a war for.

All the boy carried around with him was an old red leather back book. A book with the words dictionary engraved on it. The book had cracks running through it like shattered glass and he held it as such. Inside the dictionary, he kept three faded black and white pictures. 

One of his mother, who was as beautiful as her name. A woman who had a smile so wide, you would have to build a bridge to cross it. A woman with hair so brown, it looked like coffee. A woman with eyes so gray, they matched the clouds.

Another of his father, a man who was as straight to the point as a newly sharpened pencil. A man with freckles so plentiful, they covered his body like little ants. A man with hair so black it held stars. A man with eyes so brown, it had trees growing out of them.

The last one of his sister, a girl with hopes so high, they high fived the moon. A girl with cheeks so red, they looked like roses. A girl with brown eyes so brown they looked like wood. A girl with hair so blonde, it out shown the sun.

These were the people the boy held closest to his heart, the people whose faded photos were stuck neatly between the 108th and 109th page of his dictionary. These people were his family; they were his home.