Hello. I've been a naughty girl, yes I know. And school is being cool and all. Yayness. Anyways, since there is a long break, I think I'll write some fiction as I have NO HOMEWORK and I am gleeful about that. Hurrah. I love my Riku dream :D

Disclaimer: Please go do a google search on the net about Kingdom Hearts if you really don't know.

I feel like writing a drabble but I think I can't stay committed to it. Ehehehe.

A Could-Be Masochist

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He knew.

He knew something was wrong with him since the day he had been pushed into the sandbox by a group of bullies who called themselves his freinds, and came home battered to the bone, bruises and cuts blatantly obvious, but thought nothing of it and just cleaned himself up, despite his mother tearing and demands to know who did this to him.

He had told his mother, "My friends. It doesn't hurt."

He never really had any friends after that.

He hated, detested his mother for that. He had loved the pain they brought. He wanted that rush of pleasure he had when he was beaten up, he wanted a not-so-normal life. He hated the house with its vintage-based deign, the one with his mother in it.

Until when he was fifteen, when he could finally have friends, when his mother was killed by the same group of bullies who bullied him when he was eight.

They had came back for revenge, he thought, revenge on his mother.

He had seen his mother that night, when she was killed.

Right after his fifteen birthday.

He had heard her screams.

Her bedroom window was open, curtains torn, drops of blood trailed down the windowsill.

Her limp body was lying on her bed, oozing with sticky crimson fluid, her pretty blue eyes seemed to jut out of their sockets. The chiffon black dress on her was ripped to shreds, the one she had worn for dinner with him, celebrating his birthday with cake and chicken chops. Her blonde hair was in a mess, the usual bun was now untied. A gash on her throat bleed profusely, perhaps almost infinitely.

She gasped, and reached out her hands towards him.

The pretty blue eyes both mother and son shared interlocked, coldness in the boy, agony in the mother's.

Then the mother's hands stopped moving, erect.

He reached out a hand and felt the warm, sticky redness beneath his mother.

He realised, he hadn't felt any sadness nor anguish.

He felt nothing.

Here he was, with a woman he called his mother, seemingly dead with a puddle of redness under her.

And he hadn't called the police.

He knew his mother detested messy hair, so he decided even if she was dead, she would have wanted to look pretty and decent enough.

Decent enough for him, for the neighbours, for his bastard of a father who left them when he was eight.

He knew his father was scared of him, ever since he came home from the sandbox.

He knew his father didn't want what other people would call an "abnormal" son.

He knew.

He knew his father all too well.

He grabbed a comb from the dresser and propped his mother up, running the comb through her silky blonde hair. He took a pair of sapphire earrings and put them neatly on her ears. He took the best frock in his mother's wardrobe and helped her lifeless body in it, having difficulty with the zip behind her. He took her classic black leather pumps and slid them on her delicate pair of feet, relishing the smell of blood and synthetic leather mixed altogether, a perfect combination and diffusion in the air. They had learned Biology last year, when he was fourteen.

He took a few steps back and looked at her.

His mother was beautiful, he agreed with his thoughts.

Walking over to close the wardrobe, he spotted a photo of his father, his mother and himself.

He placed it to face his mother on the bed.

He wanted them, their whole family to see the beauty of the woman who had borne him, who had taken care of them, who had baked many a perfect apple pie.

Then he heard the siren outside his house and his knavish neighbour trying to bang into the house.

They had caught the killers, who were splattered with blood, weeping outside the white sidewalk. His neighbour was holding them captive. He pitied them, and gave them a sympathetic smile as the police barged into his house.

The muddy footprints from their boots trailed up the stairs, and disappeared once upon his mother's room. He followed.

He saw their mouths open, gaping.

He felt a surge of pride and happiness as he saw their eyes widen.

He felt proud as he told them that woman was his mother, his masterpiece.

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Okay, this story is weird. Very weird. I think it's really weird. And in the end it became drabble-ish. Oh well, I shall continue on with it. Anyways, have a nice day and please review :D Thanks plenty.