He was brushing his hair when he first felt it. Him. A soft brush against his skull. Inside his skull. The touch was not tentative. Not hesitant. It was certainly intriguing. The sensation stopped, the brushing started up again. The brushing finished. The beautiful, young boy walked out the door, down the stairs and slowed as he reached the hallway to his parents' bedroom.
The lovely, young mother inside the bedroom caught sight of the beautiful, young boy. He was leaning quite close to the wall. Like a ghost. She rushed into the hallway, swooped down and gathered her beautiful boy into her arms. She congratulated him, praised him, and kissed his smooth cheeks. She promised him a wonderful gift. He smiled. Sometimes he worried his birthday would be forgotten, he'd be forgotten.
His body was playing a game, Shadow game, when he first heard him. He'd been in reading in his room, alone. But that voice! It made words sound better, more valuable. The voice told the beautiful boy about things. All sorts of things. It was certainly compelling. The spell it wove, the stories, the truths spoken by the voice meant that the boy was too entranced to look away if he heard screaming. He was stupid. To believe in having nice things. He earned a punishment. People were taken from him. Lovely, young mother; pretty, young sister; detestable, young schoolchildren. One teacher.
The grieving, young father did not catch sight of the boy in the hallway. He could see his pretty daughter and his lovely wife and wouldn't see his beautiful, young son. And that beautiful, young boy retreated to his room, to play with his lifeless figurines and gaudy jewelry. His lovely mother always saw him and never forgot. He did the same for his pretty sister and would never forget her. The beautiful, young boy played dress up. He danced around in his gold and hopelessness. A compelling voice sang the music.
He was sacrificing a life the first time he felt free. His worthless, paper life. Sensation and blood lost. Soul damaged. Too free, filled with light, ethereal. When he realized he couldn't scream...it was certainly frightening. The damaged, young soul became solid. His head felt empty, his breathing strange, his insides cold. He didn't remember. Yet there was that one thing brushing the back of his mind. He slept. He dreamed lovely visions of endless screaming.
The beautiful, young boy realized he could not remember. Identity crisis. How on Earth was he necessary? He had thought it was his own body. But this body did not need him. Oh, but that voice needed him. It assured him and questioned him. One question over and over. It didn't take long for him to agree. Will you help me, Yadonushi? Really, it was more of a command than a request. He would not disobey that voice.