Disclaimer: I do not own Inuyasha.
How does a cookie crumble?
Piece by piece.
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Rotting, Rotten
Sesshomaru was a cookie with golden cookie crumbs that rotted from the inside out. Created by his father, the clever cookie cutter, and his mother, the oven that scorched him, he was the perfect treat, the perfect mode of deception. Delicious, but poisonous. Golden, and so very precariously perched at the top of the cookie jar.
Imperative.
But then, over a space of time – it was not a one-day shock – his mother deteriorated and raged without coherent words.
"Disloyal dog!" She screamed at his father, who stood calmly, and she was promptly put outside. Sesshomaru did not hear from her or see her ever again.
It was upsetting, to say the least, but his father said that there was no room for anxiousness or anger or fear, and that Sesshomaru's mother simply didn't exist anymore.
"Listen to me, pup." And he told himself that he would, forever and ever and ever.
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Forever lasted for about a year, until a new cookie popped out of a plain, mortal oven right beneath his nose.
Suddenly, Sesshomaru wasn't golden enough for his father's attention. Not any of it.
The great dog general visited his usual places: his bedchambers (he had company, constant company throughout the night, and Sesshomaru smelled it and heard it and burned small, acid figures into the walls. It depicted a cookie thief being killed), his dojo, anywhere on his land outdoors within ten miles, the kitchens, and the nursery.
Never Sesshomaru's room. Not anymore.
And as the hanyou cried and shrieked throughout that particular night with his ever expanding lungs, the elder brother – the more stale of the two – left his home.
'Listen to me, pup.'
He would listen to no one.
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AN: Only two or three chapters after this; it should be a fairly short story. Feedback is appreciated!