Becoming Soul

Hi hello everyone! It's finally here! I've been writing this story for what feels like FOREVER! And because I want it to be just right I've been reluctant to publish it. But I'm just going to let it flow and see what happens. I really hope someone out there likes it! This will hopefully be the first book in a series. I have big plans for this story! So, no time like the present right?! Ok, the story begins with Soul in his life before he became a weapon and will answer everything that happened before and leading up to that point. But I can't give too much away;P So, without further adieu...Becoming Soul.

Chapter One: A typical Evans morning
I woke with a start.
Sitting straight up in my bed with a slight sheen of sweat on my face that glistened in the early morning light that just peeked out of my window.
I sighed, looking over at my clock. I knew it was early, too early.
UGH! 6:00 a.m.
Its way too early for this again. This is the third night in a row that I haven't gotten enough sleep because of that stupid dream.
I hate it. I hate a lot of things.
I chuckle a little to myself at that solid truth as I rub my tired eyes and slowly slink out of bed.
The heat of the early Nevada sun not quite at the sweltering temperatures it will reach later in the day.
Its almost summertime. I don't particularly like the summer but thats another story.
I'm not a morning person, but at least my early start will give me some time to wake up before I have to go downstairs and face everyone.
I love my room. If I could I'd never leave it. Its my private little sanctum.
No one ever comes in here, unless they need something. But very rarely.
I shiver slightly as goosebumps cover my body in the cold air of my room.
I wish I could stay under my covers all day and sleep. But my good old friend the Sandman hasn't been spending much time around my place lately, so its a wasted thought.
I'm restless anyway, so I shuffle over to my desk chair and pull my guitar from it's perch.
As I slump into the familiar seat I gently run my fingers over the frets. All music comes easy to me, so it really didn't take me long to learn to play the guitar.
Even at that, I've had it for ages. The white finish over the wood chipping over the years to reveal the soft red maple underneath.
Red embellishments cut through the wood expertly to make out one word: SOUL.
It isn't my name, but it would be cool if it were. I don't know why it says it but its always been there.
I explain it internally to mean that music is my soul but I can't help thinking that it has a deeper significance.
The scars and scrapes on the back, sides and neck are proof of all it has endured after all the time its been with me.
A lot like me. It pretty much personifies my soul, making its name relevant.
Its still perfectly tuned too. I strum the strings longingly and a G chord echoes through the grand rafters of my room.
I sit up there sometimes when I'm upset. I have the uncanny ability to move like an olympic acrobat. I can't explain why, just always have.
I either go up there or the roof. I like high places. It gives me a sense of danger.
I start to absently play a song while letting my mind wander for what seemed like an eternity.
Thats something about music that I've always found refuge in, the fact that I can get lost with absolute reckless abandon. Its like nothing else on earth.
I play on until I realize that the sun has risen completely over the horizon and well into the sky, painting it with brilliant pinks, purples, yellows and oranges. I like the color orange.
I'm so lame.
Another truth I find myself laughing at.
I stop playing and run my fingers through my hair. I sigh heavily and throw my head back against the chair, my white hair spilling over the edge.
That's always been an item of distain in my family. My brother looks just like me, hair and all but his is beautiful and mine is an abomination.
But its like that with almost everything about me. I'm not very special.
At least not up until they discovered my piano playing skills. And even then.
Their interest in my ability pales in comparison to that of my brother's abilities.
Wes is a prodigy at the violin. And has been ever since he was old enough to pick one up, even before he could talk he could play.
Its sickening the way my parents adore him. They worship him. Not that Wes welcomes that, its just the way things are.
I didn't even try to play an instrument until I was thirteen. I wouldn't. I refused. But thats also another story entirely.
At any rate, my brother will always be better than me. And I accept that.
But with that comes having to accept the way I'm treated. Which is significantly harder.
I push the thoughts away as soon as I realize my mouth has pulled itself into a snarl.
Such bad thoughts this early in the morning will not make for a very good day. Thats for sure.
I set my guitar back down into its stand in the corner and push myself upright in my chair.
Atop my desk lays a very sleek and shiny white laptop that I use for schoolwork, papers, etc. I don't spend much time on it. The other items on my desk include a few neatly upright books, some sheet music, a few drawings, a glass jar of pencils, and a lamp. On the shelves above my desk there are some picture frames with some family pictures and a row of trophies for the piano. I win every contest.
Surprisingly enough my room is very neat. I don't like to live in disorder and chaos.
I crack open the laptop in an attempt to simply kill more time before heading down to breakfast.
The last thing I did while on this was apparently chat on a popular social networking site.
Well, theres no sense in not checking it now. I have a few notifications from friends commenting on things here and there. But overall there isn't anything that sparks my interest.
Half of my notifications are stupid game requests anyways. I hate them. I hate them all.
Closing my laptop I look over at my bedside clock. 7:15.
That means they'll be up soon. Joy.
I push away from my desk and as if on cue I hear the familiar noises of my loving family downstairs.
I decide to stay groggy just a while longer and move toward my living area where my flatscreen is.
I step down off the platform of one half of my bedroom where my kingsize bed and desk are and into the half where my sofa sectional and TV are.
As I flop onto the couch I mold into the soft fabric and plush pillows around me.
With a flick of my remote the mounted flatscreen on the opposite wall awakens with a flash of light and pictures soon take its place on the screen.
I casually flip through the shows not really landing on one for long.
Mind numbing television. I have the volume turned down so low that I can barely hear the voices anyways.
I don't like very loud noises. Especially television. It sounds like white noise or static to me and I hate it.
Soon, with my free hand I'm subconsciously playing the latest addition to my composition on my leg. My slender fingers playing imaginary keys perfectly.
I compose in my head switching F's for F sharps or C's for D's.
Maybe a whole step down and just transpose the whole thing?
Yeah, I think it should be darker.
AGH! Hell, I don't know.
My music has been lacking lately and I've been in a bad mood because of it. But that always happens to me when I get musician's block.
I sigh wearily, flip off the TV and toss the remote on the coffee table in front of me.
I stand up quickly, too quickly. My head spins and I massage my temples.
I could use a nice hot shower to ease my sleep deprived body.
As I head further into my labyrinth of a room I pass my stereo. Some music should help to get the juices flowing. The polished black surface of the stereo lights up at my single touch. It displays neon words and letters telling me how many CD's I have inside. I click some buttons and a light whirling sound emanates from the machine.
The last song I was listening to flows from the speakers. A piano concerto. B minor.
I've heard it all before. But I leave it on anyways in case I missed something, some augmented chord, some subtle change in triad.
Not likely I've missed anything, but just in case.
I walk past the stereo console that is sitting on a shelf inside the wall and head further toward my bathroom.
Its basically a stadium and is the size of most people's entire bedrooms.
Well by most people I mean the people that neither live in my neighborhood nor go to my academy.
As I step inside the french doors of my bathroom I walk halfway down the wall width mirror and stop.
I turn to look at my reflection leaning with both hands on the polished marble countertop.
I stare at my exhausted form. My naturally tanned skin tight over toned muscular arms and shoulders. My chest and abs rippling with the slightest movement just from a lack in body fat.
I've never worked out a day in my life, I'm just scrawny. I've actually got a little boy chest. Like a bird or something.
I'm such a little kid. My shaggy white hair falling into my face and sticking up in every direction. I decide to wash it.
I look closely into my crimson eyes, leaning close to the mirror.
I'm getting bags under them. My eyes radiate red as they light up my face.
Another item of displeasure. I used to think they were cool, my eyes.
But now I wish they were a more normal color. People teased me as a kid, but since I'm older it causes people to fear me.
As if my last name didn't strike enough fear into the hearts of my colleagues.
I turn from my reflection to start the water in my shower. As it heats up I strip out of my boxers and t-shirt and toss them into the hamper nearby.
I step lightly onto the tile floor of my shower and into the warm spray of water.
I begin shampooing my hair and I let the soapy water glide down my back and shoulder relieving some tension.
Reluctantly I decide to go ahead and get out after I'm squeaky clean, not wanting to waste time.
Or more like not wanting to hear the obnoxious voice of my mother reprimanding me. Again.
I dry off my hair and body and securely fasten the towel around my gently protruding hip bones.
Now that I've had my shower, I need to brush my teeth. Yet ANOTHER item of displeasure for my refined and perfect family.
My teeth are straight and white but just a tad too sharp.
It sometimes seems like my entire being is a blemish on the face of my family.
I rinse my mouth after working up a good froth and grin toothily at myself in the mirror.
Yep, still cool.
I guess I should start getting ready for school now.
It's like the last week anyways, I might as well get it over with.
I'm kind of welcoming the summer in a way I guess.
Not that I have plans or anything, I just don't particularly like school.
Or this uniform for that matter. Although I do catch the occasional giggles and sighs as I walk past the girls at school. And I'm quite perceptive of the stares and blushes.
But I'm not too interested in girls too much.
I'm only a first year at my school after all.
I'm only 15.
I wish I were older so I could drive and have a car. A cool white car, like Wes.
But I'm ok with walking to school. I like to daydream and compose in my head on the way. I definitely don't accept rides from my brother, thats not cool.
I'm independent, and that's cool.
On my way to my closet I check my clock once more: 7:50
Good, I've still got time. Not that I'm obsessed with punctuality, I just don't think I cant take another lecture.
I pull on my pressed and pleated school slacks and loop my black leather belt. The khaki colored pants fit nicely around my waist and accent how thin I actually am.
I try not to grimace at the outfit that is the opposite of my desired style but instead try to endure it.
I button up the white dress shirt clad with the academy crest on the right breast pocket and roll up the sleeves a few times. I then skillfully weave the plain red tie around my neck, but loosen it a little to show my collar bones and a more casual attitude. As is my persona.
Last but not least I shrug into the academy blazer making my uniform complete.
Going back to the bathroom for a quick hair combing I slide my favorite black headband onto my head which pushes my bangs from my eyes, as is school policy.
I quickly tie my black leather shoes, grab my school bag and say goodbye to my sanctum for the day. I open my ornately decorated door and proceed into the lavish hallway.
Down a few hallways and down the cascading spiral staircase in the dining hall, lies my family.
The familiar sounds of dishes clanking by servants in the nearby kitchen awakens my long empty stomach. Although the opposing sound of my mother's voice is equally as regretful to hear.
She's going on about my brother's concert tonight. I could really do without going to that. It of course means another late night. I'm never going to sleep. Ever.
Even so, being dropped into a lions den wearing a meat suit sounds infinitely more thrilling.
I finally reach the bottom of the endless stairs and walk boldly into the room where my critics are perched. My eyes immediately gauging the situation.
I didn't sleep late, so no scolding there.
I haven't received any poor marks in school and my deviant behavior and sarcastic attitude has yet to breech the safety f my mind so that isn't it.
But for some reason, my mother and father have yet to look my way. Are they angry with me?
There they sit. Chatting away without even a clue to my existence. No acknowledgment, whatsoever.
Oh wait, there never will be.
Like I said, I'm not exactly the family jewel but I'm used to it. 5 years of it so far, I'm quite used to it.
The three of them are all seated together at one end of the long dining table. This table seats close to 50 during parties and at every meal the food extends to the entire length.
Hurriedly I walk in and asses the platters of food, not wanting to sit and endure the negligence but instead grab something and go.
It looks like the servants have cleared away most of the good stuff but they always leave a little extra out for me on just such occasions.
I quickly weave through the poached eggs, lamb hash, fruit cocktails, sorbets and parfaits, the piles of bacon and sausage, flapjacks and waffles, and endless other foods.
Then I spot my destination. The tray of toast. Just the kind of finger food I was looking for.
The platter is closer to my brother than I'd like. Because not far away sits my mother.
And I'd prefer to stay out of her radar.
I continue my hurried pace over to the platter, snatch a stray piece of toast, pop it into my mouth and turn to walk away. And just when I thought I was home free, she speaks.
"Saul Christopher...One does not sneak across the family rug, the very rug your great great grandmother stitched by hand, whilst having a piece of crumbling toast dangling out one's mouth."
Busted. I halt over the rug and slowly remove the toast from my mouth.
"Yes mother. Sorry mother."
I gently cradle the toast in my hands, so as not to leave crumbs and carefully backtrack my way off the rug.
One clear I resume eating my toast. But I keep my head down because I know she isn't done.
And 3...2...1...cue nagging.
"And one would not have the need to eat on their great great grandmother's rug if one would only join their family for a proper breakfast."
I love how she addresses me without actually addressing me, I figured she would say as much.
"Sorry mother."
This sincere and heartfelt apology should be adequate enough for any normal mother but noooooo not mine.
So as predicted, she continues.
"Don't apologize to me Saul Christopher, apologize to the family."
Wait. What?!
Hold up. For real?!
God! This morning sucks!