A/N: Kid's point of view. Italics = dialogue. Most are things he heard his mother say, although there is one or two parts from another person. I think I made their voices distinct enough to figure out who its from, but if not feel free to message me with any questions.
My mother was a tidy person. As she pattered about the house, she would repeat in a voice as soft as silk, "A clean house is a nice house." In times when the urges begin to consume me, I find myself repeating the same mantra in my head. Long ago, at a time in which I am not certain, clean became skewed to include symmetry above all else.
A clean house is a nice house. A clean house is a nice house. A clean house is a...
It was not her obsession, she did not get eaten away by the urge to tidy whatever was left dirty. As a child, my mother gave me an abundance of opportunities to wreck the entire house. She did not get mad, or even unhappy, when the inevitable occurred. She simply paused before grabbing a cloth and beginning the ritual habit of cleaning. She took pleasure in the act of turning something back to the way it was before.
"Dirty to clean, clean to dirty, and back again. Everything can change, Kid, given the right amount of work and discipline."
Years before I was old enough to go to school, Mother and I would go around the house doing any necessary chores. Sometimes, she would reach down her hand and grab my own, as if to reassure herself of my presence. Other times, she would be content to watch me run ahead of her into the next room, already starting on whatever was next on the list.
"Its easier if you make a list. Then once you memorize it, you already know what to do. Doesn't that sound easier, Kid? Come here and we'll make a list together..."
Even when I was too young to fully express my feelings with words, I wanted to impress her. She would talk to me carefully, outlining what she wanted me to do. Simple acts as dusting became competitions of will as I concentrated as hard as I could to do it right. My hands would shake with the effort I put on them but it was worth it for that smile she would bestow upon me when I was done. I'd lift my head, gazing directly into her gentler, kinder eyes. The smile would come effortlessly and when she talked it always sounded as if she wanted to laugh. Looking back, I realize that smile came even when my small body had failed me and I didn't deserve such a token.
"Absolutely perfect. I couldn't have done it better myself, Kid. Mommy is so proud."
Even when it was time for me to start school, and then training, the ritual would continue on without me. As I grabbed my books and headed to the door each morning, I would sometimes catch a glimpse of my mother as she went about doing the laundry. I couldn't help pause for a moment and wish that I could stay with her. Weekends became the only time in which I was able to partake in the activities with her again. Soon, even that was taken away as training became more and more of a priority. Although she never outwardly said it, I always felt she missed our time too.
"Your father is only doing what he thinks is best. And he thinks that more training will do you good so I think you should do it too. There is always more time later..."
I was strong. Even from such an early age, no one could deny the power that lived inside me. My father worked me restlessly, trying to draw the power out from within. When I had made a break through with my training, I could feel the pride that my father had for me. I knew I had made him happy and, in doing so, had made myself happy. But feeling that pride in my father, only made me miss my mother more.
"That's great, Kid. No, nothing is wrong. I'm just tired. I think I'll go to bed early."
It was time to go to school and the list hadn't been started. I should have known, I should of turned and looked for her. How could I have left that day without seeing her? If I had I run up the stairs I might have been able to make it. Make it for what? Even I don't know.
"The mother of a shinigami is never meant to survive. In order to carry a shinigami baby to term, the mother has to draw on the power of the unborn baby just to continue living. As the shinigami grows older, the power that was borrowed must be returned. Without it, there is nothing left. I'm sorry, Son."
My mother died on the day that her bed was left unmade. She died with dirty dishes in the sink, and dirty laundry still in the hamper. This is as far back as I can pin the obsession. Just by remembering that day, I can feel it growing inside me like a virus I may never be rid of. If I had made the bed, or done the dishes, then the outcome could have been changed. This logically flawed line of thinking makes it hard to make it through the day.
"A clean house is a nice house. A clean house is a nice house. A clean house is a..."
Slowly, the obsession took over my life. I couldn't leave for school until the list was done. Everyday it seemed to take longer to do everything and then double, and triple check it. I resorted to waking up earlier until I was barely sleeping at all. Cleaning was all that mattered. Somewhere along the way, symmetry can into the equation and I grabbed onto it, believing it to be my life preserver. But as it brought me to the surface, it would drag me down deeper than I have ever been before.
"First you fold the paper in half. Then you take the paint and draw on one side. Good job. Now, you close the two sides together really fast. Thats it! Now open it, Kid. See? Its perfectly symmetrical on both sides. Isn't it beautiful?"
A/N 2: First Soul Eater fanfic :) I had a blast writing it. As you can tell, this is in the anime world only. I remembered thinking about Kid's mother as I watched, thought it was a fun idea and ran with it. I also have a second part to this that I might upload if anyone wants to read it.