Alrighty folks, let's get this show on the road. The inspiration for this fiction comes from the fact that I helped Singer out a while back with a series of one-shots based off of the Espada and their aspect of Death. Starrk's, being Loneliness, was one of the two that I wrote, (the other being Szayel) and after writing Starrk's, it was pointed out that his one-shot would make an awesome full length fic. So, after much procrastinating and a two week road trip with no wifi to do research for my other fics, I decided what the hell and am now working on this fic.
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach in any way, shape or form. However, I do own the plot.
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Prologue
He was what some would call an introverted child. Not a lot of friends, quiet, only speaking when spoken to. He was polite, however, and he managed to charm most of the neighborhood women with his small faint smiles and laughs.
But there were a great many reasons that he was quiet. It wasn't that he was abused, or bullied, per say, but there was a particular reason that most found reasons to prey upon.
His parents had died in a car crash just barely seven months previous to starting the third grade, and himself in the hospital for two of those seven months to recover from the injuries he'd sustained from the very same crash. His already short brown curls were nearly shaved off, and his slate eyes were dull. The shock, the doctors said, would only last a few short weeks. But they were wrong. It left a lasting impression on the now orphaned boy, and only a couple of people considered to be something of a friend to him knew that much. His older grandmother, for one; the other being his favorite stuffed toy; a grey wolf plush he'd named Los Lobos.
School, as it was, wasn't much relief. Even in early grades, having no parents was considered strange, or was just enough reason for the future bullies to laugh about as he passed by in the halls, shoulders hunched slightly and mouth set in a firm line. Calling him freak, and weirdo; even going so far as to throw pinecones at him during lunch when he sat on the swings and dragged his bare feet over the smooth gravel.
His name, too, was a good enough reason to name call. Apparently, naming your child 'Coyote' was enough to earn just a little more teasing to the already bad verbal abuse that he suffered through. And what was worse, there always seemed to be no one there to comfort the trembling boy once the other kids were through their daily dose of hurt. So, he curled in on himself, a flower withering before it even bloomed. Coyote Starrk was the child that nobody but his Nana and his stuffed wolf wanted.
And his life was one of tragedy.