This is my first fan fiction. Yay, I guess? Well, I tried my best on this, although I don't think it's quite up to par. However, I did write it late at night.
I don't own Death Note or any of the characters. Please support the official releases, and what not. :)
Near idly twisted his hair as the other kids played. He always somewhat enjoyed watching the others have fun, but it was like looking into a crowd of strangers. Why couldn't he had made friends with them easily from the start? He turned his attention to his cards and tried to focus on building a card house over the sound of his peers' laughter.
Once upon a time, no one particularly hated him, but whenever he tried to join in with the others, all that greeted him were small hellos and fleeting glances. His interactions with them were always short and a bit less than sweet. He stopped trying after awhile.
Instead, he turned to his studies for interaction and comfort. He rose to the number one spot easily in hopes of admiration and respect; however, it turned out to be harmful to his social position. His peers would congratulate him on his high test scores, maybe even ask for help in math, but he always saw the glint of jealousy. He ignored it at first, but as he did better and better, the jealousy in them grew stronger and stronger. Finally, one event completely alienated him from the rest of his acquaintances.
He was looking up at the class rank. Number one, as always. He was particularly pleased with how he did, though; the class was extremely hard, after all. Most of the other kids had failed. He turned away to head up to the dorms when two figures stopped him. He didn't know their names, but he recognized them as two of the older kids that were often in classes with the younger students due to late arrival to Wammy's House.
"Near, isn't it?" the taller one asked. Near nodded slightly, confused as to why they would take the time to talk to him. They never had before, why start now?
The one next to him cocked his head and smirked. "You're pretty smart, aren't you? Mind helping us out on this one thing?"
"I suppose I can. Depends on what the thing is, though."
The two boys laughed. "Bit cheeky, are we?" the second one said good naturedly. "I'm Lenard, and my friend here is Thomas. Nice to meet you."
"Likewise."
"Right, so can you help us this afternoon? Just meet us in the cafeteria right after lunch. We'll bring our materials," said Thomas.
"Sounds good," Near mumbled as the two boys walked away. 'They seem nice,' Near thought to himself. 'Maybe I'll finally have friends…'
That lunch, Near took his normal seat by the window. No one ever sat with him, but that was okay. Better to be alone than to have to partake in an awkward conversation, anyways. He ate his food while looking in his beaten up textbook. The words didn't process, though. Today wasn't a day for studying, he assumed.
As the cafeteria began to clear up, Thomas and Lenard came over and sat opposite of him.
"We invited some friends to come study with us. Is that alright?" Thomas said before grabbing Near's milk carton and chugging the rest of it.
Near shrugged. "I guess so."
"Great! Look, they're coming over now," Lenard said.
The look in the two boys' eyes changed from friendly to hostile. Near started to get up, startled by the sudden change in the atmosphere. "Is everything okay…?"
"You think you're pretty smart, don't you?" said a voice from behind. Near turned around. Oh, fuck…
His codename was Eight because, according to hushed whispers and passed notes, that's how many schools he got kicked out of for injuring one too many students. Six foot five. Three hundred pounds of muscle. Sixteen years old and still in beginner classes. Near wondered how he was accepted into Wammy's House in the first place, but that was the least of his worries. Contact with him never involved studying and never ended well. The last person to help him "study" ended up glued to a stall in the boys' restroom.
Near's heart began to pound. He had to get out of this. "I just remembered, I have an extra class now… I should probably get going to that…"
"I don't think you're going anywhere," Eight said, picking Near up by the collar of his shirt. "Rumor has it that you're number one in all of your classes. Bet that makes you feel like you're better than the rest of us, huh? Well, you're not. How can a scrawny boy with no friends be better than anyone? You're shit. You're the crap we have to clean out of the drains as a punishment." Eight threw Near against the window, causing Near's head to make a large crack and most likely get a concussion.
Near tried to stand up, but the room was spinning. Eight's friends had come over by this point and were now standing around him. One kicked Near in his side, causing him to collapse and gasp in pain. The rest had joined in, kicking and spitting on him. Everything was going fuzzy. He couldn't feel pain anymore but knew it was there. He could feel himself slipping, trying to stay conscious, but it was like falling with nothing to grab onto. The world was fading, colors dulling, everything going blacker than night.
When Near awoke, he was in the middle of the play yard. He sat up, gasping out in pain as he did so. His hair was patched with blood. His shirt was slightly ripped, and he was sure his wrist wasn't supposed to bend like that. He saw other kids standing far away but still looking, eyes wide with fear not for him, but for themselves if they tried to help him. He felt ashamed, humiliated, but if he showed it, that meant Eight and his friends would have completely won. He stood up and made his way to his room.
When he got there, he stood in front of the mirror to analyze his state better. He was bruised all over. He had various cuts all over his body, and he knew it would take a lot of scrubbing to get the dried blood out. His wrist, thankfully, was just sprained. He could fix that himself. All over his body, they had written reminders of exactly what they thought of him.
"Uppity bastard" on his left arm
"Never will amount to anything" on his right
And scrawled with bright red marker across his forehead, "SHIT"