Hey! It's NotSure here again! Story written because I literally have nothing to do in my free time, I'm such a loner. Maybe I should be revising for my exam? Nah, it's okay! Rated M for swearing, child abuse, angst, self harm, suicidal thoughts and boyXboy fluff. Oh, it's got it all...

CHAPTER ONE- HATE

Mello POV. (Russian, languages will be marked)

They all hate me here, I don't know exactly why but they still do. They torment me, they tease me, and worst of all they beat me and leave bruises and scars that will stay with me for a long time. One scar, the one on my back, will never leave, it will always be there to remind me of the horrors I have faced. My father hates me the most; he wanted a tough boy with muscles and glory on the side. What he got was, quote, "A gay faggot who isn't worth the shit on his shoe." Lovely. I get that a lot, from my father, my uncle and my brother, Maks, they all hate me so much. I don't really care what my brother thinks, but my uncle and father show their hate in punches and kicks and words that burn holes in my heart.

I curl up in my corner by the stairs, my father is shouting down in the living room, probably already drunk even though it's two in the afternoon. I should be in school, but I'm not. The bruises on my face and the gash on my forehead are too visible, even though no one really likes me, father doesn't want people outside of our house knowing what goes on behind closed doors and barred windows. My five other siblings are at school, three younger brothers, Maks and an older sister. Maks is the only one of my siblings that hates me, the others still like me as a person. They'll be poisoned by my father's words soon, though my sister seems immune to his rants about how disgusting and worthless I am. She loves me, which is something I cherish every moment of every day. She's the one of the rare ones, the rare few who actually loves me; my mother hates me even more than my father does.

I've disgraced my family, and in Russia disgracing your family is the worst crime you could ever commit. It even out ranks murder. Murder happens too often here, sometimes I wonder why laws even exist. Russia is still stuck in its ways; old fashioned, strict and still slightly Communist. Though, that stays between me, myself and I. You never mention Communism, ever. Unless you want to die a slow, painful death. My father hates Communism more than he hates me, and that is saying something. Well, I think he hates Communism more than me, I could be wrong because I've been wrong about so many other things. I made a list:

I told my father I was gay.

I thought my mother would help me.

I thought my older brother, who took care of me for so long, would accept me for who I am.

I thought that Russia was an accepting country

I thought people would still love me.

I fucking hate myself. I came out when I was fourteen, that was three years ago. I'm seventeen now. Three years I've been hated by society, hidden away from the world, beaten and abused and feared and loathed and despised. I don't wallow in self pity that often, but I just spent an hour being broken and kicked like a dog and I feel a bit sorry for myself. I'm glad no one's here at the moment, Anastasia, my sister, would try and pull me out of the pit of despair I'm stuck in; Yurik, my ten year old brother would try and cheer me up; Oleg would pile toys on top of me, trying to make me smile and Avel would simply pester me and annoy me, trying to get at least one emotion out of me.

Every bone of me aches in protest of the slightest movement, so I've been sitting in the same spot for three hours straight. I can feel the bruises, feel my bones as they slowly ware away to nothing. My blonde hair is covering my blue eyes, I get all my looks from my Grandmother; I look so much like her it makes my Mother sick. My Father even more so, gives him a base and strong evidence when he says I look like a girl. Oleg and Yurik look like miniature, male versions of Mother; all black hair and green eyes. Anastasia looks quite a lot like Father; brown hair, brown eyes and I know she hates it. Avel is a mixture, black hair and blue eyes, he has to be some Genetic Mutant because there is no way, according to proper genetics, can someone have black hair and blue eyes. He has them though, Mother calls him 'уникальный'. Everyone else calls him a freak of nature, well, I don't because I know how much that actually hurts.

"Miheal!" My father shouts from down stairs, I flinch, "Make us tea! They'll be here soon!"

I get up with shaky legs and slowly make my way down stairs, grimacing at every step because it hurts so much. I stare back at the spot, and nearly throw up, there's so much blood everywhere. Great, I'll have to clean that up later. I make my way down stairs, the stairs creek, the house is old and I doubt it'll stand for very much longer. Sometimes, when the weather is really bad, you can feel the walls shake off their foundations. It's insane really, and dangerous.

"Get down here fag!" My father yells again, angry now, "Stop being so slow! Unless I broke your legs you have no fucking reason to be so fucking slow!"

I don't argue, just simply walk quicker and grin and bear it. You shouldn't argue with my father, unless you can take it you never argue with him. I argued with him once, I was off school for three weeks until the wounds cleared. I reach the kitchen and start searching for food in the cupboards. There isn't much, there's some tvorog, butter, eggs, cream and sugar. I could make Paskha Boyarskaya, but I'm missing the vanilla. Oh well, it's all I can do. I just have to hope that father doesn't notice that it's missing. I put the tvorog through the sieve twice and drain it, then add the egg yolks and butter. I whip the cream and sugar together and then add it to the tvorog and stir it. I then add the mixture to the Eastern Paskha mould and put it in the fridge to set.

"What you think you're doing boy?" My father growls as he walks in, "That's not enough, make us some more!"

"Okay," I mutter, reaching for the other cupboard, looking for more food to cook

"Good, now get to it!" My father slams his fist on the table top, making me jump.

I search for more food I can make, the little we have left won't make anything of worth, but I can make some Grenki, which won't fill us up but will at least give us something other than the Paskha Boyarskaya. I slice the loaf of bread and fry it in the beaten eggs, milk and add some salt. I add some cheese on the top to add some flavour just as the door slams open, signalling the arrival of my siblings. I don't go and say hello, I stay in the kitchen, too afraid to leave the room with my father just outside the door. Anastasia strolls in, dropping her bag on the floor with a clank, and walks over to the hob where the Grenki is frying.

"Smells good Me..." She starts but is interrupted as three of our siblings run into the kitchen, our dog, Ira in tail.

"What's for tea Mello?" Yurik asks excitedly, his school bad still slung on his shoulder.

"Yeah!" Oleg, Yurik's twin, agrees, "I'm starving!"

"So hungry!" Avel nods, agreeing with his brothers, "And it smells so good!"

"Just some Grenki and Paskha Boyarskaya." I answer, smiling at their use of my nickname. I prefer Mello to Miheal, I'm not sure why but I do.

"Great!" Anastasia laughs, "Sounds lovely."

I smile at my siblings and continue frying the Grenki, trying to hide the bruises on my face. I don't want them to worry; they shouldn't be worrying about me. It's stupid. Maks walks in, and we stop laughing. I stare at him, he stares back and I can feel the hatred pouring off him. His grabs a Coke from the fridge and stares at me again. He doesn't say anything for awhile, but as he walks out of the door he mutters one word that I hate.

"Queer." He hisses

"What the fuck did you call me?" I yell, turning towards him, showing my other siblings my bruises. They breathe in sharply, showing their anger.

"I said, queer." Maks taunts, knowing there isn't much I can do, "What you gonna do about it?"

I run at him, he dodges me but I still don't give up. I fly my fist at him, and hit him right in his smug face. He doesn't stop smiling though, and he grins as father walks into the room. He barely stops to think as he slams his own fist into my face. It sends my flying towards the cupboards, I smack my head against the wall and my vision goes black for a second. A foot goes into my chest, I keel over in pain and I swear I heard my ribs cracking. It's a very certain possibility he broke my rib, I wouldn't put it past him.

"Don't you fucking dare touch your brother!" Father spits in my face, "You touch him again and you're dead you faggot!"

He stalks out of the kitchen with Maks in trail, and I sit there for a moment, trying to register exactly what happened. When my brain finally starts going again, I stand up slowly and continue making the tea. Anastasia takes some knives and forks out of the draw without a word and lays the table. Yurik takes out eight cups from the cupboard under the sink and fills them all with water. No one speaks, no one asks if I'm okay but I don't mind. I know it's not out of hate or neglect, just out of respect. They know I don't like to be reminded of what happens when father gets angry. They respect my wishes, which is nice.

"Tea ready yet boy!?" Father yells from the lounge,

"Yes." I call back, and I immediately start plating up the Paskha Boyarskaya and put the Grenki on a separate plate. I put the Paskha at everyone's places and the Grenki in the middle of the table so people could have as much as they wanted. I sit down and stare at the portions on the plates and for some reason I order them in size order; Father's, Maks', Mother's, Anastasia's, Yurik's, Oleg's, Avel's and mine. I'm seventeen and have less food than an eight year old. Yes, I served the food, but last time I gave myself I proper portion I was punished severly. I give myself the least now, after father's many rants about how much of a waste of food I am.

"Prayer," Father orders, we join hands in a circle and Mother starts the Grace

"Отец выше, благослови нашу еду, и мы благодарим вас за дар жизни."

"Aминь" We all finish, and we start eating.

Father scoffs his food down and eats five Grenki even though he had two large portions of Paskha Boyarskaya. Maks eats his almost as quickly, but only has three Grenki and Mother eats hers politely, like a proper lady should. Yurik and Oleg, who are sitting either side of me, try and scrape some of their food onto my plate, but I shake my head, not wanting to get them in trouble. Father wouldn't be pleased with that, I speak from experience. I move my food around with my fork, well, scraps of food that couldn't feed a lone mouse. I don't get a crumb of Grenki and I don't get a second helping of Paskha Boyarskaya, where my father gets three extra portions and then takes the little food I had on my plate. Anastasia watched with an open mouth, but didn't dare make a sound or a protest. I don't blame her.

After Father finished his food he and Maks leave for the pub, Maks is old enough to drink, being 19 and he and Father go to the pub often. I clear the table, wash everything up, tidy the Dining Room and then bleach the hell out of the patch of blood at the top of the stairs. Anastasia comes to help me and when we've finished she hands me my homework that she got from my teachers. I make my way up to my room, which is on the fifth floor. We have five floors, the house is compact and made for height rather than width. The bottom floor has the kitchen, the lounge, the dining room and the laundry room. The second floor has Father's study, Mak's room and the storage room. The third floor has the kid' bathroom and Anastasia's room, Oleg and Yurik's room and Avel's room. The fourth floor has Mother and Father's room and their bathroom. The fifth floor, which is basically the attic, is my room. Yeah, I have a whole floor to myself, but it's full of boxes and such because it's the attic. I have a bed, a desk and a box for my clothes.

I sit down on my bed, and read the homework sheet. It's simple, it's an essay on one of the three English authors we studied over the year: Charlotte Bronte, Charles Dickens or Jane Austin. I pick Charlotte Bronte, mostly because I've read Jane Eyre like 17 times. I love that book, yeah it's girly but I can like it. I finish it in half an hour, it should have taken me at least three hours but it was way too easy. That's what comes from reading every textbook I'll ever need, I thought Father might like me at least a little bit if I was smart. Didn't work. Shouldn't have expected it to.

I glance at the clock, half one in the morning. I didn't even realise what time it was, I was zoning out, trying to just die of boredom. I want to die, but I don't think I'll ever be able to take my own life. I don't want to be one of those kids that suicide is all they're remembered for, don't want to be just one of those statistics. I just have to wait, Father will kill me in one of his rants sooner or later. I hope it comes sooner, that would just make everything so much better. No one would miss me, Anastasia, Yurik, Oleg and Avel will be the only ones who would really care. Mother wouldn't even blink an eye-lash, though she might ask, who exactly was Miheal Keehl? Maks wouldn't even care, and Father would hold a party. He would laugh, celebrate and generally be happy about it.

I hate my life.

OH GOD, INTRODUCTORY CHAPTERS ARE LIKE, THE WORSE THINGS TO WRITE! It took me 7 edits to get this right. Please review, I love reviews as much as Mello loves chocolate. The foods Mello was cooking are actually proper Russian dishes, you have no idea how long I was there clicking on and off the internet, copying the names and the recipes off Google. Though, Pasha Boy-whatever, takes twelve hours to set, but I changed that just because I wanted to, and because I didn't want to randomly have school going on for 12 hours after 2pm, because I would kill myself if that is what I had to do. I dislike school, it sucks.

TRANSLATIONS:

Отец выше, благослови нашу еду, и мы благодарим вас за дар жизни. Aминь- Father above, bless our food, and we thank you for the gift of life. Amen.

(Random prayer because Mello's religious, don't quite know why it's there...)

Уникальный- Unique