Originally, this piece was meant to be a part of a longer fic (which I have yet to name), but somewhere along the way I felt like it would be better to just leave it on its own.
Supposedly, it could be seen as some sort of prequel to something which I have yet to put into writing (I do have every intention of doing so eventually, however, at the moment I need to put an end to some of the ones I have at hand.
Random disclaimer: I don't own DGM, obviously.
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"Red"
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He was a child without a name and without a past, a red-haired grey-eyed abomination. He was a freak, and unlovable to such a degree that not even his parents – the people who brought him into this world – could bear looking at him. Instead, they had sold him off to a visiting circus; they had left him with nothing, not even a name, before they had left and been swallowed up by the thick mist.
He was a nameless waif, free to use and abuse for anyone who succeeded in catching him. Most didn't; he was simply too fast on his feet. Still, staying with a circus did allow him at least some leeway once he got a bit older; here he was a freak amongst a bunch of other freaks, and every once in a while some of the older freaks stepped up as a temporary protector for him, in exchange for favours and other services. It was one of these temporary protectors – a knife-throwing man whose name he had since long forgotten – who had bestowed a name upon him, simply because of the impracticality of calling him "Kid" all the time, seeing that he was by no means the only waif running about in the area.
Red.
It was a simple name, but it suited him like a glove if one considered his hair and his left arm which was red as well.
Red like the colour of blood.
Red like the colour of life.
Red like the colour of death.
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Although he was no longer a nameless waif, he was still free to use and abuse by many. One man in particular, a lousy clown who was a mean drunk – Cosmos? Kojimo? Cosimo? – seemed to have made giving him a nice beating into his newest hobby. Obviously, Red did not enjoy having been degraded to a mere punching bag simply because the lousy drunkard had some serious anger management issues, but he knew better than to raise his voice and complain to the Ringmaster; a victim to an occasional beating every once in a while or not, winter was approaching and Red definitely preferred still having a roof over his head when it started snowing. As such, he did his utmost to stay clear of the man – Cosimo or whatever his name was – although it only seemed to motivate the man to seek him out more often in order to 'teach him a lesson'.
Coughing violently, he leaned heavily against the trunk of a tree while pressing a hand to his side, wheezing. Pain caused tears to sting in his eyes, but he did not shed them, mentally forcing himself to calm down and breathe more smoothly in order not to extend his injuries beyond that of a cracked rib. Slightly dazed, he found himself looking skywards, looking up just in time to see the first couple of snowflakes fall from the grey clouds which covered the sky from horizon to horizon. Involuntarily, a shiver ran through him, causing him to cringe right thereafter. He was so cold.
Unable to remain standing due to the shaking of his knees, he collapsed in a heap, his head falling back to collide with the tree trunk. Breathing hurt, but holding his breath wouldn't help him much either so he forced himself to inhale and exhale at regular intervals, his breath hitching every now and then as the pain grew more intense. His eyes continued stinging, and he felt strangely hot and cold at the same time. Then, unable to bear it any longer, he gave in and allowed salty tears to slide down his cheeks, before blissful darkness blossomed up. Wordlessly, he welcomed it, allowing it to embrace him fully.
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He could have died on that day and he could have died reasonably happy if he had, but as a matter of fact he didn't; the wretched thing called Fate had seen it inconvenient and had set about to intervene and sent someone off in his direction – a random person he had never met – chasing an escaped note sheet which had been swept there by a gust of wind. Some would have called it an act of divine intervention and Red definitely would have called it something else entirely, but it still did not change the fact that he did not die on that day. Still, it would suffice to say that he had been surprised when he had found himself in the expert care of the circus' pianist, a man in his twenties who had efficiently managed to nurse him back to health, even though Red had more often than not been less than cooperative.
If anything, the man probably deserved an award for displaying such a degree of patience, but it was also entirely possible that he just had a fair deal of experience in the department of handling the sometimes feral and occasionally violent strays that ended up in his immediate vicinity. Still, it took more than a few kind words, a decent treatment and food to tame the beast Red turned into when he felt threatened; it took music too, as the pianist soon discovered, seeing that his unwilling ward seemed to grow just a bit mellower under the influence of it.
Perhaps it was that very influence which made sure that Red remained with him even after the cracked rib had healed up, but even so, he did not remain for long; the pianist could sense him grow more and more restless by each passing day, see him feel more and more restricted, and acknowledging the other's silent wish for freedom, the pianist sent him on his way with a light pat on the back before watching the child leave, eerily aware of the fact that he probably would not see him again. He did happen to see him once maybe a month later though, at a distance, looking slightly roughed up, talking to a clown he didn't recognise while said clown finished burying something in the ground.
In the snowstorm which followed soon afterwards, Red and the clown both disappeared without a trace, their disappearance passing by unnoticed by all but a few, even fewer of whom cared about it.
Years came and went since then, and the pianist – weary of a drifting lifestyle as he was – finally left the circus and went to buy himself a train ticket back to the home he had left behind so long ago. On his way, he crossed paths with another – someone heading in the opposite direction.
A mop of dishevelled white hair caught his attention for a brief moment and he turned, catching a slight glimpse of a smile before the other – a boy and fairly young at that – disappeared into the tent which the pianist himself had only just vacated.
The pianist found himself just standing there, looking towards the tent opening into which the boy had disappeared, temporarily caught up in his thoughts, vaguely recalling the presence of another boy – one who had disappeared just as suddenly as this one had appeared. The pianist snorted lightly before shrugging inwardly. He turned his attention back to the path heading downtown and took a step forward, dispelling the memory and thereby severing the threads of a past which had secretly bound him there. He took another step and forgot about it altogether, oblivious to the farseeing silver-grey eyes which kept watching him as he went.
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A smile crossed the white-haired boy's face as he turned his attention back to the Ringmaster, nodding softly in acceptance to the man's offer.
Weary of the fixed lifestyle as he was, he was far beyond ready to start drifting again, caring little for where that would eventually lead him as long as he kept on moving.
Walking up to the piano, he lifted the lid and pressed down a key, and then another.
A melody rose from the instrument as nimble fingertips continued to dance upon keys of black and white, mimicking the echo which had always resounded within.
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A single luminescent drop fell down into a pool of blackness, rippling the surface.
Rings spread across the surface before echoing out into nothingness.
A hand was held out towards the shadow seemingly trapped beneath.
The child, white-haired and scarred, smiled.
"Let's go… together."
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