Chapter Twenty-One: Not a Monster?

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Running through the rain I tried to imagine where Maka could have run off to from my apartment.

She doesn't know this area of Death City. She would get completely lost if she went too far out of her way. But from the looks of how she left my apartment, I don't think she would have been able to get very far even if she wanted to. Oh Shinigami, I've really screwed up this time. I knew bringing Maka to my apartment was a pretty risky and bad idea. Ugh! Why did I have to be right now? I can never answer correctly on tests or homework, but now I get to be right for once.

I kept running down the many empty streets, trying to find even the tiniest clue to be able to find Maka, but I could barely even see two feet in front of my face.

Ugh! I'm getting freaking drenched out here! Where could she be? I looked around to - well, I tried to anyway - to find Maka, but all I could see was the pounding rain.

I was starting to lose my cool at this point, and the next thing I knew I was screaming her name to see if playing 'Marco, Polo', or in my case, 'Maka, Soul' would do me any good.

I started running again in who knows what direction and I-"UCK!"

I hit a damn wall?! Are you serious?!

"Okay, this is ridiculous! Maka! Where are you?! I'm sorry! If you'll just let me explain! Please, Maka!"

I continued to yell out for her, hoping to hear her soft voice, but my ears could only pick up the thunderous noise circling around me.

I was running in what felt like circles, calling out to Maka every chance I got without drowning whenever I opened my mouth. I was tired, out of breath, soaked from my head down to my shoes and all the way through my boxers, and utterly out of hope.

Why couldn't I have been blessed with soul perception, huh? That would make my life a hell of a lot easier right about now. But noooooooo. I had to be cursed with being a weapon. A freak. And not even a cool freak. A scary freak. To everyone I'm just some messed up kid with scary powers and probably the world's next serial killer.

They never saw me as a little boy, afraid of growing up and afraid of what was happening to him. No. I was marked as a danger. An outcast. Even in my own family.

'Screw them!' I thought. 'I could do so much better anyway,' and I ran.

I ran from my friends, who, I guess, weren't really my friends anymore. I ran from my family. I ran from my past. I ran from my future. A future that I never wanted.

Being born into the Evans family tree automatically set my life on one path, and one path only. I was born to be famous as a musician. Pretty cool, I guess, if you're onlooking from a far, far, far away distance. Not so much if you're up close and personal with it.

My parents demanded perfection - and the ordinary.

"If you can't express yourself through playing someone else's music perfectly, and not playing those dissonant and tone deaf sounds that you insist on performing so much than I do not care to listen to you any further." My mother would always say that to me whenever I tried to play her a piece that I had written. She was a wonderful woman.

Then there was my father.

He had no care for anything I did if it wasn't musically or instrumentally inclined. If I had a soccer game and I scored the winning goal and got signed for a national team - he wouldn't have cared. He wouldn't even look up from his newspaper at the table to glimpse my trophies. He was an encouraging father.

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