All kids are special and unique, some are just too quiet to show it, Mark was one of those kids. Mark didn't intentionaly do anything wrong, it just happened. Like the time he was triming the shrubs, he didn't mean to close the clippers on Nick's finger, he was his best friend.
One stormy night, Mark coughed until his ribs ached. He listened to the nothingness in his empty, cold home. The boy wiped his nose with his sleeve for what felt like the thousandth time. Mark heard loud thumping from what seemed to be coming from his front door. "I'm hearing things," he told himself. Chills went down his spine as he heard more knocking. Mark crept over to the door, and passed his kitchen. Mark slid the door open, nothing. The boy jumped when there was a thump from the refrigerator. Mark opened the fridge, and in the butter dish, there was a finger. He slowly grabed the finger from the butter, vibration from his pocket startled him causing the pinky finger to slam on the tiled floor. Mark opened his black Nokia phone, and heard his only friend's voice say one word, "Butterfingers."
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