Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach, or any of the Bleach characters used in this fic. They all belong to Tite Kubo: the genius behind the captivating manga that started it all. I only own any of my original characters that I choose to include, as well as any of my own original plot ideas.

To the Sun

A/N: Centered around the first Yachiru.


At night, one could easily hear screams from outside. Horrid things happened during the hours when drunks, rapists, and murderers ventured out of their dens, seeking out prey. A terrible thing, even for such a lowly place as the Rukongai's darkest of districts. One never got used to the noises that sliced through the night air like a blade against tender flesh. And the screams, those of fear and pain, were the remnants of the wound; the blood and ichor that had seeped through, staining the streets an ungodly color. On occasion, bodies could be seen lying about on the side of the road, some twisted and broken, having been forced into lewd positions, while others had been charred and sliced up, the scent of blood and foul flesh lingering in the winds.

Had someone ever told her that hell was worse than this, she would have laughed in their face. To Yachiru, having grown up and suffered in such a place, there was nothing in the world, nothing below the ground nor above the skies, that could even come close enough to compare. Having once been granted the chance to visit the first district, she had seen a drastic change, almost as if her "home" and the pristine little town were on two opposite planes. Hers, being filled with demons, was the one that was filled to the brim with all the things that made a person strong, while the little village of the first was where the peaceful and content resided. She had never once envied them though, for they lacked all the trials that would drive instinct into their skulls. Instinct that would keep them alive in the long run.

To hold one's own was to survive, even if certain death were to come. To survive was not to live, nor was it to fight. It was to do what one could with what one had, and struggle up until the moment life fled the body and blood seeped into one's mouth. A harsh reality, but one that she had come to know very well. Her own parents, the gods rest their souls, had perished horribly, bargaining with their assailant for the life of their only child. The man, she remembered, was notorious around these parts, known for devouring victims when food was scarce. Unfortunately, her parents, after having been forced to play his games, had gone the same way.

The memories of that night were faint, but they were present. They were torturous, especially when the twenty-second day of June rolled around each year. On that day, she would traverse the streets as she headed to their resting place where she had buried their bones, armed with a knife beneath her ragged kimono. There were no flowers in the area, so Yachiru had reconciled herself to offering a prayer of sorts. A kind of verbal letter in which she would explain to her parents what had happened and how her life was going. There was never really much to say, for daily life was usually the same: Scavenging, begging, watching her back.

And, each time she departed, she would remember the words her father had frequently said to her as a child: "In life, people are diverse. In death, they are the same, for they all are lifted back unto the sun."