Yo to all my faithful readers out there and newbs to my fics, Meii-Chan here!
Here's an OOC story for ya, this one not D. Gray Man (suprise, suprise). It came to me after playing a day of hookie with nothing to do but browse my youtube and fanfic account. If you don't like it, it will get better, and include everyone's facorite heart-throb. :)Enjoy!
The first creatures to seek me were the rodens; my parents cleaned the crib free of seven dead rats and over fifty ants the morning after I was brought home from the hospital. My first word was "dead."
At the age of four, forced to live with my uncle and aunt after my parents abandoned me, I stepped in the dark of early morning onto a toad, which, in turn, popped like a water balloon. Never again did I dare to move until the daylight was out.
For the first six months of my fifth year, I slept sitting up in hope that I'd see the bad things coming so I could prevent them. But six months of cleaning the dead proved difficult for my uncle to handle--he paid one of the maids seven hundred dollars extra each month for cleaning the mess before anyone in the family, excluding me, could see it. Needless to say, sitting up didn't seem to help.
There were times when it felt as though my insides were full of broken glass. It felt as if the souls of animals stayed in the dark, watching my every move.
I didn't dare to tell my uncle or aunt of the feeling--even without words, I knew they were disgusted by me. It was the small things that gave them away--the glances exchanged over my head and the wavering fingers, never quite making contact with me. Worry. Fear. Repulsion.
The maid soon quit when the job got to disgusting for her, even with the sum offered in larger quantities. That became my first and only chore, besides finding a pet cemetary willing to hold all the bodies I had to offer. Eventually, my uncle just bought a large piece of land for that--he made sure it was within walking distance--outside of the west wing of the mansion, where I stayed... where no one important would be able to see it. He didn't say that, of course. It was just one of my feelings--something I knew was undoubtabley true.
I trembled my way through the days, constantly sleep-deprived, chronically ill. My stomach churned--a headache never ceasing to throb at a dramatically slow tempo in my ears. The cause of the symptoms remained a mystery--the doctors suggested shrinks and councelors. Maybe I was just one of those children that required attention. I'd often see my aunt staring at me. Once she'd questioned me on the subject, only the break off and leave the room in tears.
My uncle punished me later for making her upset; I was kept in my room for two weeks straight, the company of me and what should, by now, be a friend. But then again, death never had become a comfortable compainon--It hated me, but my feelings were ten times sharper than it's dulling blade.
With each month that passed the deaths slowly escalated--the animals changing from insects and roden to woodlen creatures; a dee was even found once outside my bedroom door, shocked dead. It was never discovered how it had entered the mansion. Me, personally, didn't want to know.
Soon enough it began happening in the day as well. At school, kids whispered my newly-found nicknames: Reaper, Witch, Grave Digger. Other names I pretended not to hear. Adults isolated me too. It hurt.
As the days crept by at a painful pace I stopped trying to bond. I put on a old hoodie to hide my face in hope that people wouldn't recognize me when I went out. Soon enough I came to the same conclusion as everyone else: I wasn't normal. I was a freak--a sideshow. I might a well have been Harry Potter, without the happy ending. Without even the magical school or close friends--just a little Harry Potter girl, living in the cupboard in a house surrounded by people that hated me. Hell, I even had the evil cousin for it.
Sumire Shoda had despised me since I was five years old--her daddy, my uncle, had bought her an amazingly adorable tea-cup yorkie, fully trained and perfectly fine with being a toy for a toddler. It was her third birthday and the only present she recieved. Two years later it suddenly started choking on a piece of plastic while I happened to be in the room. I tried to help, but I was five--what could I do but say "Spit it out!" and watch the dog with tears pouring down my face.
Sumire blamed me without a regret, and mourned its death for a mere two days. At the end of the week, she begged her precious daddy for another one; he struggled to refuse her, then told her slowly that it could die again, subtly looking in my direction. Obviously, Sumire got the hint.
Another word without malice or ill intention was never spoken to me from her mouth. Not unless it was an annoyed "Pass the salt." And even that soon ended--I quickly decided when I turned seven that I was past done with eating at the same tabel, just to feel sick as disgusted or worried glances were shot my way.
Still, they pretended. My uncle and aunt, I mean. They acted as if nothing was wrong with me. Acted as if the view from the west wing wasn't a pet cemetart. But it felt so fake. And you know why? Because my world was, and is, me and death. It's a lonely place to live, but I thought things were going to get better.
My name is Mikan Sakura, and I was wrong.
It's different--hell, it's a prolouge, so its short as can be. Give me sugesstions on how to make it better, and sorry, I know some of you gaiiz have kindly pointed out that I use "--" to much, but its part of my writing style :(! What can I say? I'm addicted:)!
XOXO
-I-MUST-BE-DREAMING-
Meii-Chan!