It was the first memory I had ever had. I still have dreams about it, even today. Normally, children don't have their first memory until they're three or four, but this one was painful enough to remember forever.

It's of my father saying his last farewell.

I never got to know him and neither with my mother. I know I was happy with them, I can feel it in my heart, and one day, they just vanished. All I have left of them is the memory of my father smiling, and telling me he loves me. And then Zero Reverse happened.

My parents weren't very popular, but everyone who met them loved them. I came to stay with my elderly neighbors who were lucky enough to get away from the blast while they still had the chance.

Their child, however, wasn't so lucky. I still remember the lectures they gave me; their son was handsome, tall, and a surgeon. His wife was as beautiful as all of the flowers in the desert combined, and their children were the smartest and bravest in the whole world. They told me only demons, bitter with hatred and contempt for the world would take their lives away. They told me my father was to be blamed.

Every time I did something wrong, whether it be accidentally knocking a vase over or even bothering them when they didn't want to be troubled that story would come out. They told me I looked exactly like him; from the color and style of my hair to the greasy, disgusting stare of my eyes. The woman made her opinions most vocal and I found staying away from the house as long as possible was the only way to get some sort of happiness in my life.

One day, she snapped. She had gotten down on her knees in front of her son's family portrait and asked God why he seized her precious baby boy, and not the monster that was now taking her love and the last of her kindness. Why I had the right to live and he didn't.

That night I ran away.

I had always escaped the house and gone down to the docks, watching the ships come and go, wondering where they went, and that night would be the night I found out.

The next day I was in The Satellite. These docks weren't nearly as nice; they were rotting, rust covered, and littered with trash. The air was thick and dingy, smog filled my lungs and screams of agony and torment filled the air. Somehow, that moment was one of my better memories. It was a first chance at freedom in a long four years of constant mental abuse.

I ran. As far and as fast as I could. I ended up in some street and had no idea where I was, nor did I care. I kept telling myself it was better over here and I would never go back to New Domino City but as soon as my stomach growled, I knew I was in trouble.

For three days I was forced to eat trash and leftovers, until I found an orphanage to stay at. Actually, it was more like some lady's home she opened up to whatever starving child she could feed.

Her name was Trisha. She was young and beautiful and had pictures all over her home of her family. Her husband was handsome and in most she was carrying a small child.

I refused to give her my name whenever she asked for it.

One night I cut my hair so it no longer looked like the style of my father's. It was short and ugly and I hated it. I also found a pair of sunglasses and never took them off, even inside. I always thought it was better to live like that and have no one recognize me so I could keep my friends.

One day, I let it slip. I let my name out when I was arguing with another child over something silly. To this day I can't remember what it was we were fighting over, but I'm pretty sure the main reason was because I wanted to stop living in the shadows and any fight could have sparked my resolve to let others know about me.

I wanted people to know who I really was.

The pots Trisha was carrying came crashing to the floor. She just stared at me in stunned silence, until she kneeled down and slowly removed my sunglasses. It had been two years since I had first arrived there and I hadn't cut my hair, so it now looked like my father's again.

Her expression flipped to anger, rage, disdain, hate, and detest. With one fluid motion she brought her hand across my face.

It stung like nothing I had ever felt before, both on my cheek, and in my heart. She threw various kitchen utensils at me and yelled for me to get out and never come back.

Who would ever consciously allow a demon to stay in their home? The very demon that spawns the blood of the one who murdered your spouse and only child?

And so, I ran. Again.

Never looking back.

I ended up in another street I didn't know, but they all looked the same. Dark, dank, dirty, and disgusting. I sank to my knees, hugging my shoulders and cursing my existence. That night, I didn't sleep, I only cried.

I wandered around The Satellite for a few days, not stopping for anything. But after about four days of no food or water I blacked out.

I woke up on a bed in a cozy room with a warm light on the ceiling. I could hear footsteps leaving the room and a few kids calling out "Martha! Martha! He's not dead anymore!"

An older, kind looking woman came into the room, reassuring the children around her that I was only sleeping before, not dead. She shooed them out of the room, closed the door and returned. I noticed that she was carrying something in her hands.

It was a bowl of rice, noodles, and chicken with sauce poured over the top. Even if I wasn't starving out of my mind it would look like the most delicious thing in the world. She offered it with a pair of chopsticks and a glass of water. The smells wafted in the air, the steam rose so temptingly from the freshly cooked meal, but I refused it and began to get up, apologizing for being a burden and thanking her for her hospitality.

"You look just like your father."

I froze. Those six words stabbed me right in the gut and poured a frothy mixture of salt and lemon juice over the festering wounds in my heart. I felt like lashing out, demanding what she knows and what she's going to do about it. I felt like destroying the room I was in and storming out of this building and walking for the rest of my life.

She set the water and the chopsticks down and passed her free hand through my hair, looking at me in the eyes. She smiled warmly.

"Strong willed, tough, bold, but with a touch of kindness in your eyes, even if I may have just pushed a button I shouldn't have."

I sat there, unable to conclude what I should do.

"Your father was one of the smartest, most generous men in this world for his time. It's a shame that so many folks can forget everything beneficial he's done and only think of the accident that was never even his fault. You think that too, don't you young man?"

I sat there a moment, looking for the deception in her eyes; for the anger and hatred and lies. But I couldn't see anything.

Something warm and wet fell on my hand. I looked down, but it was just a drop of water. Martha raised my chin up and ran both of her thumbs under my eyes and only then did I realize I was crying. I wrapped my arms around her and buried my face into her robes.

It hurt me, just like before. But this time, it was a good kind of pain. It was the realization that everything was over and a heavy burden was lifted from my shoulders. We sat there for a moment, me sobbing and Martha humming a sweet tune in my ear until she finally broke the somewhat silent moment.

"And Mr. Fudo?" She asked. I stayed pressed against her but still managed to get "it's Yusei" to be audible enough.

"Well then, Yusei, you have the most gorgeous blue eyes I have ever seen."

I don't know if she was trying to get me to stop crying or to feel better than I already did, but she only succeeded in making more tears come out and for me to start hiccupping uncontrollably.

It still makes me smile when I look back on it. How a person can be that kind and loving, I could never guess, because she also had friends and family lost in that catastrophe. She treated me and everyone else at the orphanage just like her own children though.

It wasn't until I met Jack and Crow that I started styling my hair like I do now. I was teased, hated, and picked on by adults and children alike, and those two felt the easiest way for the bullies to let up on me was to give me my own style. So they practically tied me down then proceeded to cut my hair so it was out of my face and dyed a few locks with condensed lemonade and mayonnaise (since Martha wouldn't let them touch the bleach).

I hated that hair cut at first but eventually grew to like it, now I refuse to change it.