Disclaimer: I do not own Soul eater.

Note: This chapter has now been re-written. Please enjoy!

RELEASE THE HATE THAT YOU HARBOUR!

As the sun emerged from the horizon, the students of Shibusen had just started to drag themselves to class since the bell had already sounded. However, for one of the students, dragging was way too fast. Her pace was more suited for a snail on morphine. Alas, Maka did manage to cross the threshold into the classroom where her classmates were just getting seated. While she made her way to her seat, where she collapsed on her bench, she absently noticed Tsubaki watching her. Maka however, chose to ignore this in favor of trying to get a quick nap before professor Stein showed up.

Tsubaki however, despite being both considerate and patient, decided after careful consideration to ask what was troubling her friend. But as she opened her mouth to ask, the boy who was sitting beside Maka decided to explain in a frustrated tone the cause of their bench-mate's misery.

"Her father was on the phone until four o'clock this morning." Soul growled tiredly "and he kept calling this whole morning too, because Maka hung up on him. I haven't slept more than two hours."

Tsubaki heaved an understanding sigh as she aimed a pitying glance in Maka's direction before settling down properly. As the tale-telling sound of a wheelchair heading their way echoed through the empty corridor, the students released a collective sigh before settling down quietly before their teacher had actually really showed up in the class room.

"Good morning class. Since I'll be busy with something else you'll all be doing-" the scary-looking man stopped his quiet speech to screw the silver screw more tightly into his head as if trying to produce an idea that way. Then, as if realizing he might need to rephrase himself, he cleared his throat and continued loudly:

"Today class you will be writing an in-class essay about an assigned topic which will be handed out shortly. The essay must be finished by the end of this class and contain some measure of passion within. Understood?"

Some nods of agreement or a weak "yes" was the only answer the Professor got. Satisfied he started to randomly hand out the topics to each student. This was followed by yells of "WHAT?! No way…" and "Oh for goodness sake!" from many of the students before everyone settled down again.

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Thirty minutes later all of the students showed moderate or slight interest in their topic, except one. Between Soul and Tsubaki a never ending sound of a pencil being used was heard. This caused Stein to smile slightly; Maka was as usual very serious when it came to work. Almost the spitting image of her mother in more ways than one. Then he continued his nap behind a thick dictionary, due to not having gotten enough sleep tonight as a certain man had kept calling through-out the night because his "precious daughter was ignoring him". Who honestly cares?

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At the end of class everyone handed in their essays and continued on to do whatever and when Professor Stein later that evening settled down with a cup of tea to read the class accomplishments which were more or less…good he could not help but to forlorny mourn the loss of much needed sleep. There was a almost blank paper with the name "Death the Kid" carefully written in the middle of the upper part of the paper, this was followed by Soul's short account of pianos (a topic he knew he had not given him) and Black Star's "essay" about…his own star constellation? Then finally, Maka's essay made it to the top of the pile. As usual, it seemed well written and interesting. Professor Stein smiled slightly to himself as he begun to read. This small smile however, disappeared slowly only to be replaced by a sadistic grin.

"Passion indeed." he murmured before laughing out loud and writing a big A in the corner before moving on to the next essay.

An essay about parents by Maka Albarn.

Parents: the ones who guide us through our first years, those who mold us into who we are and will become. They care for us, nurture us and in the end, they never really leave. Leave as in "go away", "leave you alone" and "disappear". It simply isn't natural for the average parent to do so; once the spawn is born they stalk it to the day they die (or longer). Whether it's because of wanting payment for having that night of awful sex (or in my case insemination because my parents have never touched each other), or the following nine uncomfortable months with a parasite or the following painful birth of said parasite, or nine months of hell, being the slave of said parasite-bearing partner, or simply a loss of goal in life, they can and will stalk their child to the best of their abilities.

Usually they excuse this sort of behavior with statements like "it's for your own good", "I know better" or the favorite "because I care". All of the above statements can be answered with "I doubt it" because really, what says "I despise you" more than exercising complete and utter oppression of the child's own free will? However, no parent wants their love-spawn to make their own mistakes and successes. They want complete adoration/obedience and so their statements should never be answered this way. If one wants some slice of freedom one must trick, cheat and be sneaky. In the end parents never suspects their own children to be foul creatures (even if them being the child's parents mean that their child by default is the spawn of satan).

Trying to isolate yourself from your parents usually works, though that also means giving up the rights to undeserved praise (which is nice if life treats you like shit). But usually having a semi-close relationship work as well, keep them occupied, let them feel appreciated for doing the smallest of things (so that they don't try to solve the bigger issues) and when they get tired of it (because old age will sooner or later appear cross-my-fingers) freedom has become reality. It is now spending time with your parents becomes fun, because they now seem to have forgotten why they stalked you and can actually be spoken to like normal people, without the occasional "you're doing it wrong, let me handle it". Life will be good in 50 years, I'm sure of it.

The End