"some children are simply born with tragedy in their blood."
———
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The blood was dripping, forming a small crimson puddle on the wooden floor.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The wound stung, much like the pain in his heart.
Drip. Drip.
A pale hand gently brushed over the wound- his own.
Clink.
A glass shard, tiny. Bloody.
Drip.
Drip.
Smells like alcohol. Pungent.
When will he ever learn?
———
A muffin, a candle, a lighter.
What seemed like a pitiful celebration was a shard of his hope for better days.
Hope that would go wasted.
Flick.
The candle was lit.
Would he ever get a proper birthday party?
Unlikely.
Dull red eyes that everyone hated, including himself, watched as the flame flickered, lighting up parts of his small desk.
His body was tired. Tired from the excessive work he had to do. Tired from the barrage of hatred by everyone around him.
And yet, he could do nothing.
Nothing but exist, knowing others have it better without even trying.
In the grace of misery, he was blessed with misfortune. That white hair, that pale skin, those red eyes.
How unfortunate.
Such a shame it was, that albinism was relative to demonic nature in this small rural town.
His bruises stung painfully. His hands trembled from exhaustion. His eyes burned with how tired he was.
Such a shame indeed.
And yet, the candle was lit.
Happy Eleventh Birthday, Shiyo.
A small celebration for himself, hypocritical it was, knowing that he wished for nothing more than death.
A life is no longer meaningful when there's nothing to live for after all.
And what did he have to live for?
———
The celebratory muffin was stale, bland and flavorless. Like his life. Funny.
It was ironic considering all the cooking he did for his guardians, yet he wasn't allowed a single bite.
Those same trembling pale hands, scarred with the hatred of others, cleaned up the desk, putting everything away. They must not know he did this.
He was tired. So, so tired.
He wondered if there were others like him. Other children who lived in fear within their own homes, fear of their own parents, fear of the environment they stayed.
Of course there were others. So what made his suffering any different?
Small tired body laying on the bed. He was lucky to even have a room. A room that wasn't his, a room passed down to him that belonged to someone who had more than enough reason to live. And yet, that person was gone.
Because of him?
He thought so.
Holding the last fragment of that very person in his hand- A jaded blade. The blade that was given to him by the person who cared about him most. The blade he so treasured. Under the pillow it went, for safekeeping.
Those hated red eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling. He couldn't sleep. He mustn't. Lest his law-made father come for his body in his sleep again.
Sleep was vulnerable. He didn't have the option of being vulnerable in this world.
And yet, he dozed.
———
Tap tap tap.
He dozed off. Luckily, he was left alone. Perhaps he could rest just a bit longer. . .
Tap tap tap.
How he hoped that wasn't someone by his door. But, they'd never knock. Knocking meant respect for a persons privacy, a persons boundaries.
He didn't have the privilege of respect, privacy nor boundaries.
Tap tap tap.
The tapping was louder, more forceful. Brows furrowed, a twinge of pain. He sat up. Squinting. It was still midnight.
Something was by his window.
Tap tap tap.
An animal?
Small bare feet made their way to the window cautiously, feet that learnt how to suppress noise and stay quiet. A need for survival.
He rubbed his eyes. . . .
An owl.
Dazed as he was, he knew owls didn't just come and tap on people's windows. His first thought was someone trying to break in.
Tap tap tap.
Ah, Impatience. Shiyo got the sense that the owl wanted to be let in. Obviously.
But could he? What if it made noise?
Tap tap tap.
. . .Well, he didn't have much to lose. He glanced around, listening carefully. . . The hell called home seemed asleep. Good.
Those wiry fingers pried the window open just enough- the owl flew in, catching the albino in surprise.
It had a letter.
He stood there, dazed. Head still riddled with exhaustion, he was in no mindset to question this. But he had to.
A step forward- seeing the owl on his bed. The owl dropped the letter, ruffling its feathers- and took off, back through the window.
The confusion of midnight.
Standing there for a good minute, his hands closed the window back carefully, without making noise. Eyes traced back to the letter. Was this a trick? A prank?
But he was curious. Perhaps a chance at curiosity wouldn't kill him. He usually had no opportunity to be curious.
ᴍʀ ꜱ. ʜᴀɴᴀᴋᴏ
11 XXXX ᴅʀɪᴠᴇ
XXXX ᴛᴏᴡɴ
ʟᴏɴᴅᴏɴ
The formality, the exact location. It disoriented him. It seemed so surreal- and yet here it was.
Was someone stalking him? Not likely, who would want. . . Oh. He grimaced.
Pale fingers grasped the letter tightly. The letter was opened with caution. Normal owls didn't deliver letters, no owls delivered letters.
𝐇𝐎𝐆𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐑𝐘
. . . what?
———
a/n: And so it begins.