Author's Note: Just so you know, I've taken a twist on the Soul Eater series and Death the Kid's mother is just my portrayal of her in this story so take note that most of these things don't happen in the manga or anime, it's another one of my deluded psychological horror fanfics. ^^ Please review and let me know whether you enjoy it or not.

Oh and another thing, if you like to listen to music when you're reading a story just to get into the mood and such (like me), try listening to Hekku Shun by Radwimps, it's a Japanese/ English song but it would really get you into the mood. ^^ (I listen to this song whenever I write psychological/ traumatic horror stories.

Chapter One - Marionette

I was seven years old when my mother died.

When she 'committed suicide'.

I could still remember her screams and pleas.

"You're a sick, horrible child. Get out of my sight." I clung tightly onto my rabbit plush doll and continued to stare at her. My perfect mother.

She coughed, smoking her cigarette and drinking down another bottle of alcohol. Her face was shrouded in foundation and messed-up black make-up but everything was symmetrical nonetheless. She loved symmetry; she was obsessed with it. It was somewhat of a psychological disorder. And she hated me because of that.

"You're so ugly," she would always point out and either tug my hair or lean and stare at me menacingly. I was born with three white stripes on my jet black hair and no matter how many times my mother tried to dye my hair or cut it off, it would always show. "You're not my child, now get out of my sight."

Sometimes I'd cry, but most of the time I would just stand there silently, eyes showing absolutely no emotion at all.

Cursed.

Ugly.

Impure.

The things that my mother would call me could be written into a list and would never end. Some of these words, I wouldn't even know their meanings, but I always knew that they didn't mean any good.

"Mommy, why do you hate me so much?" I asked innocently, pulling at her shirt and hugging tightly onto my rabbit doll. The stench of alcohol and smoke made me cough and splutter; I couldn't even imagine the damage it'd done to her lungs, let alone the damage it'd done to me.

She deeply inhaled her cigarette, causing it to flare a bright orange colour. She then breathed out a huge smog of grey smoke, making me cough again.

"Because you're you," she replied in that damaged, dry voice of hers.

My eyes flickered, stung by the carbon monoxide. I could feel tears well up in them, but I wasn't sure whether I was crying from being hurt by her words or from the cigarette smoke.

"Then…" I looked up and stared at her with my detached, yellow eyes. "What am I?"

She chuckled slightly; she seemed to be glad that I asked.

"An incompetent, nasty little demon, that's what you are," she snarled and suddenly threw her cigarette at my pink rabbit doll, setting it in flames.

I gasped and instantly dropped it in surprise, then I turned to look at her with widened eyes.

She smirked in amusement, taking enjoyment in my shock and devastation.

She'd destroyed the only thing that kept me happy in my life.

The only thing that smiled at me, even if it was an object.

And for that, I learned the meaning of hate.

A tear rolled down my cheek and I choked and cried, causing her to scoff in annoyance.

"If you're gonna cry, go and cry somewhere else. It's annoying," she snapped and pushed me, demanding me to get lost.

By then, my doll had turned into nothing but a pile of burnt ashes which mother told me to clean up and throw away. I did as she instructed, not speaking, not uttering a word. My mind was somewhere else; my thoughts no longer remained that of an innocent seven-year-old. They never were, anyway; I was known as a genius in my school, my IQ and mind exceeded everyone's by far. But none of the children played with me; they thought I was a freak. I wasn't like every other child. I wasn't happy, I never smiled, and I never laughed. I was depicted as a walking mass of depression, a being that brought misery into other people's lives.

I then suddenly had a flashback of an art lesson a few weeks ago.

"In today's lesson, I want you all to paint a picture expressing your feelings and emotions."

My art teacher was a rather happy-go-lucky person. Or rather, that was what she portrayed herself to be.

She had a slight fear of me, I could tell that she knew that I saw right through her, and for that, she became afraid of me.

Everyone rushed to get their paints, all of them pushing past each other, wanting to get the cleanest, prettiest paints. I stood outside the crowd, waiting for them to finish so I could get my art equipment. I didn't care if I got the dirtiest, spoiled paints; it would have no effect on my painting anyway.

I turned to look at the person sitting next to me, a girl with dark blond pigtails, tied with red ribbons. I leaned over to take a look at what she was painting and sighed at the sight; it was an amateur painting of her and what seemed to be her mother holding hands and smiling. Her father was nowhere to be seen.

She turned to look at me, causing me to back off and get back to my own painting. But she didn't seem angry; she smiled, her emerald eyes flashing against the light.

"Kid-kun, what are you painting?" she asked me curiously, pure innocence in her voice. She was one of the few kids that didn't hate me or make fun of me, and I liked her for that.

"Take a look," I replied and she leaned forward to see my painting.

It was a picture of a little boy holding a pink rabbit doll and stabbing a woman with a blood-stained knife.

The boy was black haired and had saffron eyes.

There were three white strands across his hair.

Having seen the painting, tears welled up in her eyes and she suddenly burst out crying, causing the teacher to rush over and ask her what was wrong, to which she pointed at my painting.

I frowned and sighed, figuring that I was probably going to be sent to therapy again.

And get another beating from mother.

"Kid.. Kid!" My flashback stopped abruptly from the sound of my mother shouting at me. I turned to look at her, confused and distraught.

"I told you to get lost!" she repeated and threw an empty bottle at me, causing me to run off, out of the living room.

I huddled and leaned against the wall; my mother shouting and screaming at me was part of a daily routine that we had to go through and my father worked full-time as headmaster of a secondary school. To be honest, I couldn't even remember his face.

I then remembered my painting of the boy with the doll and knife. That boy was me.

I wanted him to be me.

I got up and walked over to the kitchen and reached for the knife. It was clean, unused; mother never cooked so all of the kitchen equipment was clean, slightly dusty though. Nevertheless, it would still be able to do its task.

I held tightly onto the knife and walked back into the living room, much to my mother's surprise and dismay.

It was only until she saw the knife that she became serious.

"Kid, what are you trying to do?" she implied, her voice slightly shaken by surprise and fear.

"Mommy hates me, doesn't she?" I stepped forward, causing her to get up and stare at me cautiously.

"I hate mommy too."

With that, my eyes flashed from an emotionless pale yellow to a piercing, raging saffron and I lunged forward, stabbing her forcefully into the stomach. She stumbled and fell back, dumbstruck by my sudden anger. Without a doubt, I could tell that she never thought I could harbour such emotions.

I was nothing but a marionette to her.

I pulled out the knife, causing her to gasp and jerk up in pain. She was breathing rapidly, her eyes were widened in frenzy.

"Don't kill me, don't you dare!" she screamed. "… Please!"

I took pleasure in watching her suffer and writhe in pain. Finally, she was understanding what I felt day after day.

I wished that she would stay that way forever.

But she had to die soon, either that or she would live, which I certainly didn't want to happen. And so I plunged the knife into her guts again and again, causing her to scream and thrash at me. I was hit a couple of times, but my determination and hatred had overcome me and I fought against her, continuously stabbing her. Until she smashed me on the head with a bottle of beer.

The thick green glass shattered into pieces and strong, reeking alcohol seeped through my hair and trailed down my face and neck. The pain was immense and blood was trailing down my forehead. I groaned and screamed, pulling back and clutching my head in pain. She then took it as her chance to gain control and leap onto me, trying to obtain the knife.

"Give me the knife, you demon!" she shouted, pushing me down and forcefully trying to grab the knife from my hand.

I was only a mere child, there was no way that I could overpower her. She easily took the knife from my hand and pointed at my face, her eyes a penetrating glare. Her other hand was clenched around her bleeding stomach which I had caused serious damage to.

This was it, I was going to die.

But then something clicked. I remembered that father had kept a pair of pistols in a drawer in the table. I could easily kill her with that. I reached into the drawer and pulled out a gun, much to her shock. She never knew that there were guns, let alone a drawer. She was always too drunk to notice anything.

Without any hesitance, I pulled the trigger, not even knowing if there were any bullets inside. Luckily, there were bullets and the one that I shot went right through her head.

I got up and watched her fall back, ending her last breath.

The scene wasn't perfect, it wasn't how I wanted it to be, but it couldn't be done twice. I had to admit though, it wasn't like how I depicted it to be in the painting. There were many differences.

There was no rabbit plush doll.

It was already burnt to ashes.

She didn't die from being stabbed by a knife.

She was dead from a gunshot.

My face wasn't emotionless and cold.

I was smiling.

The police came a while later; someone had reported hearing a gunshot coming from my house. They asked me a few questions and I lied, telling them that mother had committed suicide and when stabbing herself didn't work, she changed to shooting herself instead. And since I was just a young innocent child, they believed every single word of it.

I was then sent to live with my father at Shibusen, the school that he worked at. He was kind and spoiled me a lot, he bought me a new rabbit plush doll, which I kept in my rucksack. I also kept other things in my rucksack, but the one that I was aware of most was the other gun that was kept in the drawer, the one that I discreetly took whilst no-one was looking. But I also carried along another thing from home:

My mother's obsession with symmetry.

Somehow it'd seeped into my mind and I grew obsessed with it, just like mother did. It was a kind of OCD, and it grew to become my trait.

Years passed by and within a short time, I'd already turned sixteen.

But my obsession also grew with me.

And I had no idea how long I'd be able to control it.