If you don't like violence, abuse, bullying, complicated plots, AUs, and teenager Shiro, please turn back.

This shall be a fantasy IchiHichi fic. .w. With Seme!Ichigo.

please read, enjoy, fave, and review. Many thanks!

FULL SUMMARY: Shirosaki Oghichi used to be happy at some blurry point in his life. Or so he thinks... he can't quite remember anymore, because all that fills his mind is the ramblings of an already fragile mind near the very brink of collapsing into dark insanity. The one place he knows he can find serenity is the river; and it's there that his life takes a turn... for what he's sure is the worse.

C1: Identity

He had always been worthless trash. Or so he'd been told often as he lay shivering on the doorstep outside his home, or in the damp of his basement, or tied to the rain pipe by the neck with his own scarf. Those first days where he was thrown out and tossed about by his own father, his own flesh and blood, would not be forgotten. There were ingrained into him as much as those words.

And he didn't forget them. Try as he might to push those words out of his mind, to place them somewhere far away in the back storage rooms of his consciousness and just somehow forget, he always found in the end, when worst came to worst and he was finally forced to put two and two together, that he couldn't. They were words that were imprinted inside his soul, burnt into his head with molten iron and hot steel. Something that he could never wash away.

As long as those words remained there, they were reality, and there was nothing he could do about it.

"You're worthless trash." That was what his father had told him the first day he'd walked into the house with Everclear on the breath and a spark of ruthless murder in his eyes—the first day he'd ever smelled the heavy stench of alcohol surrounding his parent in such an impenetrable cloud. And before he could have even asked, the big oaf of a man had slammed him against the fireplace and pressed the faintly warm fire poker against his pale neck, threatening to beat him. All the while repeating that line. "You're worthless trash.

"You're worthless trash.

"You're worthless trash."

He had fought at first, like the proud little boy he had been then. He had been the very definition of pride, and if he had wanted he could've dropped teenagers three times his size at the time, because he could fight for his honour. An old code, one that cheating bastards of nowadays would no longer follow, but it had worked for him.

But not against his father. The man was ten times his size, the child had thought then, when he loomed tall and spoke with a booming voice that made even his own son shiver. And even worse were the words he had spoken, hundreds of times over and over again, before he had finally started to beat him with the stick, and the boy had cried.

He'd cried so much more than he had ever thought he could.

And then, after that, he didn't fight anymore. He didn't defend himself. He didn't even move to dodge fists flying straight at his face, because by then what his father had said had registered with him completely, and he just couldn't fight back anymore.

"You're worthless trash."

So what was the point of even trying?

After that, he couldn't remember when after that the dark descent into madness had begun. Perhaps it was there, right then, when the poker had contacted with the side of his skull and left him bleeding and unconscious by the fireplace, beaten and racked with sobs for the very first time in his life. Or maybe it was later, as the beatings grew more frequent and more so violent, and had left defining scars that would tarnish him for the rest of his life across his once flawless white body.

Just like those cruel words.

"You're worthless trash."

And then came moving from his old small neighborhood, away from his old friends that he could barely remember after years of never once calling or writing them, never seeing their faces. And then there was the new school. He thought it was okay—at the very least he'd make a few new friends.

That was all there was to it, right? There would be no judging, no hatred, no bias, because everyone was supposed to be friends. That was how his old school had been. And Karakura was fairly small, too, so it would be practically the same.

He was wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong. If possible, he was beaten down in Karakura High more than he'd ever been in his life, and his old man laughed when he came home with new bruises and fresh blood, and then proceeded to beat him more.

They were all heartless bastards. Or maybe he just deserved it. Being hit and kicked wasn't something he was new to, after all. So he could deal with it.

And he heard that line more than ever before:

"You're worthless trash."

And it was true. If it wasn't then, it was now.

...

Shirosaki Ogichi, age 15. Attends Karakura High.

Family medical history: Alcoholism. Seizures. High blood pressure.

Past medical history: Seizures. Birth trauma. Childhood illnesses. Accidents or significant trauma…

...

And that was where the words cut off, as if the pen had been jerked awkwardly from the paper in haste; as if continued contact with the coarse surface was lethal to its sharpened point.

"... Damn it."

He had found the paper and stuffed it inside his notebook, and now he was grasping it in his left hand, close to the desk's surface so that no one could lean over and steal a glance. But the paper was like fire when his eyes scanned quickly across it; the more he had read, the further the list had went on, and the less he was able to restrain a hostile scowl from curling his lips.

That bastard, he half-growled to himself as he shoved his hands in his pockets. He inhaled deeply, once, then twice. Self-control was necessary in such situations. He shouldn't let himself get out of hand. Damned, damned bastard.

Shirosaki shut the little book with a false air of casualness about him, his eyes darting back and forth. No one seemed to have noticed his short bout of wordless anger—good. Well, it was no time to rant and fume over little things like that, anyways.

After all, the weather was so nice out, and the classroom was quiet for a change; Keigo, the incorrigible little twat that he was, and that bitch Chizuru weren't screaming and completely out of their minds for once, and…

Who was he kidding? Trying to stay sane after reading that was near impossible.

Ha. And I'm saying that they're out of their minds? That's a nice one…

Hm. He'd better work more on keeping his thoughts to a minimum, because they were starting to intrude on his focus again. When was the last time he'd lost control of them? Last week, wasn't it? It was when he'd started crossing the street without even a glance at the stoplight, and then he'd nearly gotten run over by a truck twice as tall as he was...

"Oghichi-kun?"

That was a little funny, now that he thought about it. His father would laugh so hard his stomach hurt if he told him: "I nearly got run over by a car today, Dad." And then it would drive his old man nuts that the goddamned truck hadn't managed to fucking kill him. Because his failure of a son was a fucking idiot for not even being able to control his own mind and should therefore suffer the consequences, and if Shiro had died? That was fine. After all, then there would be more food on the table for one person.

Me, more sane than Chizuru or Keigo? You've got to be kidding me. The jokes I play on myself have gotten more ridiculous as of lately...

"Ogichi-kun…?"

Maybe he'd even write it down for later. Shirosaki entertained the thought. Him being more sane than those two were was as likely Walmart having a slow day, and McDonald's would sooner go bankrupt—why not? It was likelier than the prospects set forth for him, the boy who couldn't even look both ways before crossing the damned stree—

"Ogichi-kun!"

He gave a start, head snapping up and eyes widening in surprise. He must have looked extremely comical—there were small giggles quickly sweeping through the classroom, and he simply stared at Ochi-sensei; she was adjusting her glasses and gesturing hurriedly towards the board.

"What is the answer to this problem?"

He stared some more… Oh. Simple arithmetic. He should be able to do that, right…? It wasn't even the entire problem altogether, none of those complex operations that lay in perplexing disarray in his notes. Just a bit of adding and multiplication… and...

God damn it, it was useless trying to work it out, what with the head he sported today.

"... Um… I don't know?"

More giggles, and Ochi-sensei looked stern. She turned to Chizuru, who gave the answer instantly, and Shiro's head fell back into his arms with a languid sigh as the maths problem progressed on.

What a lovely little life he would be looking forward to, he thought to himself. Didn't other parents always talk to their kids about thinking ahead for their futures? He knew Ochi-sensei talked about it often as if she were preaching the Bible to them. A great future, wasn't it? Mr. I-nearly-got-ran-over-in-broad-daylight-and-can't-even-focus-on-arithmetic just sounded extremely promising.

As if he was fucking looking forward to anything.

He shook his head and tried to focus on the papers before him. It wouldn't do if he had been caught reading out of his book—lucky break that he had put it away moments before he'd been called on. The teacher would have had a field day, and briefly, with a small smile, he imagined her flailing her arms in half-panic, half-irritation, and her wild look of frustration as she would launch into a long-winded lecture about just how important paying attention was in class and how it was just oh, so important to his future. He was used to that.

What future? I thought I had a past medical history filled with illness? Accidents and significant trauma, right? Sure am lucky it didn't say anymore than that… oh, and thank god I didn't tell anyone about getting run over. Now that would be interesting to see.

He pushed the thought out of his mind quickly and picked up his pencil, twirling it empty-mindedly, his mind going off in wayward paths. Often he tried to control his thoughts and where they tended to wander, which was often into uncharted territory he'd rather not scout out if he could help it, but he'd given up on that ages ago.

He let his mind go about its own business occasionally and found that he could somehow gather enough concentration to stay on the subject at hand even so. That was how he got through most of the day, through the endless, tedious classes his education and the country insisted he take, and how he passed the time in his room, where there was little time to pass in the first place if he wasn't listening to the half-baked insults and the surprisingly well-aimed punches and hits he always came home to.

That meant he was at least able to add one and one together, right? What was that supposed to be? Three?

… God-fucking-damn it.

Huh. That was funny. Be at school and listen to never-ending lectures and then go back home and hear even more of them. It was so tortuous it wasn't even funny… if he wasn't careful, he might go into cardiac arrest right at his desk at the hilarity of it. And what a glorious speech prepared on the topic of falling asleep at school Ochi-sensei would have. Shiro bit at his thumb, trying with slight horror to muffle the low chuckles that threatened to slip out.

… Better to not let his mind go anywhere near the topic of "home".

Instead, he stared up at the board and at Ochi-sensei, trying desperately to sort out what could about logarithms could be so life-determining in his near future. It was probably something only his rather eccentric teacher could flesh out from an odd list of career choices in her soul-pouring speeches about the greatness held in the hands of today's youth.

Haha. Yeah. As if that could apply to me.

What was he going to be when he grew up? The aspiring mathematician who nearly got run over at age 15 in the middle of the fucking day and couldn't even add one to one? Lovely. Just fucking lovely.

Shiro noted the silent whispers from behind him as he balanced the pencil between his fingers, flipping it a couple times before boring himself with it and flinging the writing utensil away to the edge of his desk. He began flipping through the maths textbook for the page Ochi-sensei was on—he'd lost it about half an hour ago when she had started to define exactly what a logarithm was.

… What was it supposed to be again? Probably some kind of maths. Well, this was maths class, after all, so what could be expected?

Twenty three... vanadium. Twenty four, chromium.

His head was going in those strange places again; no wonder people hissed in disdain at him and pointed and jeered. It must have been what they called his "disorders" and "problems"—the endless racing of his thoughts and their uncontrollable raging. So this time he was reciting elements, huh? Well, at least he knew he'd get through physics later in the year. Or not. His thoughts seemed to only stumble across what he didn't want to know at unpredictable times, and when he wanted to know important things like the capital of Canada—was that important? He couldn't remember what his teacher had said—even if he might have gone over a list of every capital in the Americas and Europe and Asia earlier in the hour, his mind would have eluded him easily. Damned thing.

Shiro really supposed he couldn't argue the paper he'd stuffed in his notebook. With a brain going ten miles an hour and a concentration so loose, at that rate he was sure he could almost certainly be diagnosed for ADD; neither he nor the bastard students of Karakura would be that surprised. Which reminded him...

… Oh, yeah, the page number. He'd lost it again, even as he had been looking for it, and as he was beginning the search for the right page once more, he could tune in to the background conversation occurring directly behind him with its horribly poor excuse for subtlety:

"—see how pale he is—"

Twenty five. Manganese. Twenty six—

"—never seen someone so freakishly white before!"

—what was twenty six? Oh, yeah… iron.

"Did you see how weird his eyes are? Black and fucking yellow! Ever seen anyone like that?"

Shiro was used to these things, the whispered wonderings and the muttered insults.

He clicked his tongue quietly to himself and worked on turning the pages, his head still rambling on about the elements at the same time try as he might to silence it, and it seemed to be slowly but steadily composing a precariously shaky image of the period table. He wasn't putting his focus into searching for page 339—or was it 449?—nor the building of the table that would soon wash blank from his consciousness completely anyways, even if he had placed the blocks in their proper places meticulously and solidly identified each term a hundred times.

It was on the dialogue that now would not stop running through his head.

Probably stupid little girls who had nothing better to do in their spare time but gossip. He didn't have time for those who merely slandered various weirdos during lunch break and all other hours of the day, and he merely continued to search for 339—no, it had to be 449, because 339 was on quadratic functions. But wasn't quadratic functions somewhere in the 200s? God damn it.

Shirosaki.

That was his name. A name that he very nearly loathed and grown somewhat attached to, because it had been given to him by the bastard that had raised him and a woman he had barely known but probably loved. He raised the pen he'd just picked up and chewed thoughtfully on the cap, ignoring the bitter taste of ink when it hit his tongue.

'Probably' being the key word there.

Yeah. That was true. He had barely known the woman, and the man who at least gave him a roof over his head was not a nice person.

Then again, home was not a nice place either. His abusive father disliked boys.

I wonder if it was because the boy he had was me?

Maybe he'd better start rebuilding his thoughts from scratch. That periodic table was too far in depth for its own good, anyways.

The bell rang, and there was a clattering din as the students stood and chairs were pushed back, papers packed into their bags, and they crowded at the door chattering eagerly. They were eager to get home—he could hear them laughing and talking about how their fathers had bought them the newest game, and their moms had honey cakes and pork buns set out for them.

Shiro nearly bit off the end of the ballpoint pen in irritation at the sudden racket. He hated loud noises.

He reluctantly stood, brushing off the light grey of the school uniform and wincing at the soreness in his legs, which he quickly stretched, forcing the blood to flow and all the while stuffing the items on his desk into the worn shoulder bag he carried.

Maths textbook… Pens—two of them… a pencil and a ragged, ink-stained eraser that looked like it wouldn't last another hour, much less the two days he needed to get out of the house and to the department store again. What had been going through his mind when he had been trying to erase the upper half of his English assignment that was completely wet ink the night before? And now he was suffering the consequences. Wonderful… so that was what he got for letting his mind rampage. Maybe the bastard who had written out the first few lines of that medical form had been right.

... Got everything… and...

His little leather-bound notebook. Now that was something he couldn't leave behind. He picked it up and flipped through it before letting out a contented grunt and dropping it with considerable kindness into his bag. He couldn't let that get damaged.

He pulled his bag onto his shoulder and brushed past the crowd, pushing past the girls that had been badmouthing him during class. He avoided their gazes, but even without glancing over he knew that they were watching him anyways. They were too fucking nosy for their own good.

People teased him often.

It was more for his pale skin and stark white hair than anything, and for his eyes. Eyes that made people afraid, and colourless skin that reminded them of bleached, coarse paper.

But he heard the whispered rumours that went around about him and his book. People said he kept bloody stories in there. Stories stained with suicide and tears. Black stories filled with a cruel heart. Maybe they were judging based on his looks, but nobody ever said they were wrong.

He didn't know if the whisper of rumours was true or not, but nevertheless he reached in, pushed the book into the deepest pockets of his bag, and re-shouldered it with a huff of exhaustion. School had a tendency to wear him out, because it added even more things to think about and even more time to consider himself.

Thinking about himself wasn't something Shiro liked to do. Maybe because there was nothing pleasant to think about.

He walked alone outside the school. He was used to being alone, of course, because there was no one who wanted to hang out with that white boy. He wasn't "white" like Americans and Europeans were, though—he was the kind of white that was colourless, pale, a pure white. That was what old men moping around in temples would have called "demon skin", and what his father called him.

How ironic. Were demons not supposed to be pitch black, and heralded angels a glistening white?

And his eyes. No one really wanted to talk to him while looking at his eyes, either. Because if pure white skin wasn't demon-like, then black sclera and yellow irises were, no doubt about it.

Shiro kicked a stone away as he kept his gaze on the ground, hand brushing against the brick wall he walked along, and he thought about life. The life back then and the life now… what was better? A small little elementary school from decades ago that had probably been demolished by now, in the forlorn years in which he'd left it, in that place where he'd had that small group of friends who stuck up for him? Or here, in Karakura, where it was loud and big and bustling, and everyone left him alone and whispered "demon" behind his back?

They were scared of him. They had been, from the first day he'd walked into the new class during middle school, 12 years old and brushed up and excited for his first day. They had stared back at him in morbid anticipation, as if he would suddenly combust, and as if his eyes would turn a startling evil red.

That attitude had not been forsaken when he'd moved to Karakura High for his ninth year.

Oh, life was so, so perfect, he thought with a sneer. Life was just too fucking perfect.

And he was tired, too—so tired he just wanted to sit back against the wall of the building and give in, to fall into a dark slumber he would never rise from. Even that would be so much more comforting than life itself. Was there pain in death?

Only if you went to hell.

But was there any guarantee he would not go to hell?

Two months. Two fucking months, two months of hell and reality at this school, and he already felt so sick of it all. There were the people who left him alone, of course, people who didn't hurt him or stomp on his self-esteem—and there was none of that left, rest assured—but there were the gangs that liked to follow him around and beat him for the fun of it.

Those were the ones who called him demons and dragged him to the ground and pulled up his shirt to laugh and make fun of the scars left vividly on his body.

He hated them.

Both the scars and the gangs.

He hated that he couldn't fight them.

He hated just being near them, and being the person that he was. Defenseless. Helpless.

Friendless.

Shiro lowered his shoulder bag to the ground, squatting down on his knees to push aside the flap and pull out his black sweatshirt. He shrugged it on and zipped it, dropping the hood over his head.

Then he began to walk, a fast pace that belied just how fragile his body was, and made it down the block and a good bit away from the school before he could risk pausing for a moment, standing discreetly close to the side of a building and hoping no one could spot him from that distance away.

Shirosaki stretched out his back, feeling the few cracks his spine emitted in response, before exhaling slowly and breathing in deeply. This was going to take some work, and he wasn't sure if he could do it.

"Let's... see if I can get home without running into anything troublesome today."

… Halfway home.

Not more than halfway to his damned house, and he had gotten jumped again. He had heard the barest tap of a footstep and had turned around only to stare, for half a minute in shock, before being too slow—or just unwilling—to duck and avoid receiving a faceful of shiny, patent Italian leather shoe that he didn't even know he could hear from half a block away.

It was late afternoon, and so the sun had been setting and casting a warm orange glow over the pavement, the shadow playing darkly over the sidewalk in crude and precise angles that mimicked the twists and turns of a coaster. Such a nice time to be walking, and he had had his hoodie pulled down over his head. They would have had to be following him long enough to know that it was him, because the black hood draped over the most part of his facial features, the strange eyes and the pale hair, and even if strangers spared a cursory glance at the suspicious wear that masked his face, even someone from his classes could not have recognized him from a ten feet off.

Shiro could have been able to avoid anyone from Karakura High, to dart into a nearby alley or store and hide away until they had gone, so quickly he would have laughed at the ease of it, and so he knew now that he'd been followed, possibly since the moment he left the school. Why hadn't he realized that earlier…?

And next thing he knew, that was followed by a fist to his stomach, and he doubled over, gasping for breath, before taking a stumbled step back as he clutched at his abdomen, forcing the air into and through his lungs. His bag had slipped off of his shoulder when he bent over, and now it laid limp and lifeless on the ground, a horrible foreshadowing of his fate.

This was payment for not taking notice of his surroundings, for not sparing one glance back.

If it was nighttime, my senses would be better… damn it… damn it...

His hearing and sight heightened when it was dark. Maybe it was the lack of pigmentation or something in his eyes that made them prone to the sun—could eyes lacking pigment even be yellow and black? But nevertheless he could navigate at night, even if there was no light out, easily. His awareness always increased when it was dark, and he'd relied on that often.

How he regretted it now, to be so dependent on something that wasn't even an open option to him most of the hours of the day. He was that weak now, was he?

Just halfway to the damned house. How could I have messed that up?

But nevermind now, because the best thing to do was run. Shiro turned, trembling, and made a break for it. He could do it—he could. He could be down the sidewalks, past the stationary shop he'd wanted to drop in by for just a moment before he went on his way, and hopefully away from whoever it was that had gone after him, within moments, if he was fast enough...

"Sh-Shit—!"

A hand on his shoulder and fingers curling into his arm had jerked him back almost the instant he raised his foot to run, and then he'd crashed heavily against pavement. Hard, cold pavement that left deep scratches in his cheek and jaw and would take almost an entire week to fade if they bled.

He felt the hard side of the Italian leather shoe slam into the back of his head, and he couldn't help but let out a muffled shout of pain. It had come so quickly and unexpectedly that it had burnt with unimaginable heat, spreading through like wildfire and breaching the last walls of his barriers he'd set up in his mind, because pain was all he could feel, and—

—forty six, palladium, forty seven, silver, forty eight—

His mind was in a frenzy. He couldn't control it anymore… damn it, damn it, this was not the time to be thinking of elements…

His mind raced and his head hurt, and he couldn't stop it.

… He hated feeling weak.

Shiro let out a ragged sigh, one morphed in between a half-screech of agony and a groan of defeat, and only curled in on himself as he felt the onslaught of pain rip through him.

… He was used to this.

He heard a familiar giggle from above him as the edge of the shoe slammed into his skull again, and he lifted his arm for just a moment, as if in consideration of climbing back to his feet to make another run for it, when his the sole of the shoe met the back of his hand, and it dropped back limply to the concrete, now burning with pain.

He knew that voice. He knew it.

If he wanted, he could confront his attacker later, the next day at school. He could maybe make this stop. Somehow. He could end the pain and the constant aggravation… he could…

No. I can't.

Because there was no point. There was no point in trying to stop someone who knew you were too weak to keep your own threat. No matter how much he could tell the bastard to stop, it would be in ludicrousvain. Because he was weak, and before he would be able say a word, a promise that he wouldn't allow the other to lay even a finger on him another time, the shoe would be slammed into his face again, and he'd be lucky if he could just get away with a bloody nose.

Why, why, the hell could he never fight back? He used to. Used to take seven of those bitches out in five seconds. He could have taken this shrimp out in two. There was only one—he could have easily done it. What happened then? Why did it all change after that?

"You're worthless trash."

Later, when he picked up his fallen shoulder bag and heaved it to his side, wiping the blood dribbling from a corner of his mouth, he'd wondered exactly that, and those words would come to mind.

… He didn't get it.

Shiro supposed that was one more thing he didn't get to add to that list, and one more thing to think about while all those useless thoughts were already racing through his head at ten miles per hour. He started home with the shivers of pain burning down his spine.

And Shiro didn't anticipate anything even mildly pleasant in that place, either.

He wasn't surprised.

He was never surprised anymore. It was as if he took in everything with carelessness, with an attitude that screamed: I don't give a fuck anymore, while the truth was he didn't know if he did or not. It was simply that everything recurred with such redundancy in his life—running, beatings, cruel words—that he was just not surprised anymore.

And so, when the first thing Shiro was greeted with when he turned the key in the lock to his house, withdrew it reluctantly, and twisted the doorknob to step into the cool of the house was a rough hand on his shoulder that dragged him into the wretched place, he barely even blinked. What would be the use of that, anyways? To delay the sight of the beast that imprisoned him for just a second? Just another moment of refusing to accept his fate?

… No. That wasn't right to say. This man was barely even comparable to the likes of a beast, when they were so much kinder than he could ever be.

The door slammed behind him, and he found himself trapped between a monster of a six-foot tall man and the—rather hardy, he noted—door that had guaranteed his passage into hell the moment it'd opened to him. And when it screeched shut, all he could do was look down—he could hardly dare to look into the eyes of the master of this house—and scowl at the floor in pure contempt… in sheer hatred.

It was the bastard who lived in this house that had begun to fill out that medical form, the one he'd found just that morning crumbled up and thrown in the wastebasket. The bastard who'd said, numerous times, although Shirosaki could never think that he'd dare to put it on paper, that Shiro was mentally unstable, and that he needed help—time in a mental hospital? He had never known the drunkard could dream of something so cold-hearted.

The only reason that he would be in an asylum one day was because of this fucker.

Was it not his fault that the label of "trash" had been forced upon Shirosaki in the first place?

… He might be trash, but there was still something inside him that demanded respect.

"So you've come home, you little brat." The words were slurred and heavy with alcohol. "Did you get in another one of those damned fights? Your mother..." There was a pause here—the drunken bastard had forgotten to breathe as he talked. "... told you fucking not to…"

"Don't talk about my mom." He was surprised at his own audacity—after all, his head had been gushing with more and more lists and thoughts all because of that goddamned spat with the little shrimp who had somehow managed to beat him into the ground like that. His mouth was completely susceptible to his damned thoughts. "Don't."

It came, so quickly that if he hadn't stepped back even slightly, as he did, his neck might've snapped under the strength of the chokehold that curled around his throat. He gulped and choked out the smallest of gasps.

What did I do to ever deserve this? I wasn't born trash, was I? I wasn't… wasn't… made for this…

"You little fucker." The grip tightened, and Shiro let out a strangled cry. "Didn't I ever teach you to not talk to your father like that?" Shirosaki's stunned silence must have fueled his anger further. "Did you fucking hear me, you little fucking brat?!"

And all Shiro could do was swallow his spite down and nod.

That night, he didn't cry, and he didn't shrink away. He never did when his father—the drunk, stupid, fucking bastard of a father—beat him; all he did was cover his neck so that he couldn't be beaten there, where it hurt and the bruise would be hard to cover up against the white of his skin, and shut his eyes tightly so he could only hear and feel the pain. That was the best way to push down the sounds that threatened to rise from the back of his throat and traitorously pass his lips, and he wouldn't have to visibly cringe at the sight of the anticipated strikes that came down upon him repeatedly and endlessly.

Was it something to do with the fear? The fear that if he made a single noise, the big man would stop his assault, pry his son's hands away, and wrap his own fingers around that pale, thin neck and snap him in half right there? Probably.

But maybe it has something to do with pride.

Maybe. He held that firm hope inside him. It was something he desperately wanted to be true—because if it was real, then he wouldn't have given up. He wouldn't have sacrificed all his strength and all his will, everything that had kept him going in his early childhood.

I used to beat the shit out of anyone who crossed me, didn't I?

The thought brought the smallest of smiles to his face, the tiniest spark of remembrance to his eyes, something that was quickly crushed when a large hand struck his face and stung his already reddening skin and marring flawlessly white skin. If he could glance into a mirror, he would have thought it was so wrong.

To think that a once strong-willed, wild teenager, something resembling a beast of pure instinct and raw, unleashed power, could have fallen so far as to lie at the feet of a bastard who didn't even deserve to kick him in the fac and to be forced take merciless beatings without a word.

I used to be strong… so strong. I was, wasn't I? Wasn't I…?

He was collapsing, the hands that were pressed against the sides of his neck falling to the carpet. His last defense, gone—but no, perhaps it wasn't his last… perhaps it wasn't.

He barely even knew when he hit the floor, and he could hardly feel the next two kicks that landed in his stomach.

The last of three hits he'd taken there today.

There was a pause, in which he heard the floorboards creak under the dizzy swaying of the man he was forced to call father, and then a few mumbled curses before shaky feet took that monster away from where his only son lay, bleeding from the lips that he'd been so harshly and eyes squeezed shut in hateful indifference to the other's retreat.

Shiro allowed the slightest moan to slowly leave his still-pressed lips, one he was sure his father wouldn't hear.

What did I do to land myself in this situation?

In the past, his old self would have crashed at his friends' house, would've wandered the streets and stayed far away from home as possible. His old self would have put up some form of effort to keep away from this bastard who didn't deserve so much as to see his son's face.

But in the past, his dad didn't beat him as much, did he? For the past three years, maybe it had finally taken a toll on his body. Or maybe, if he could just shut his eyes even more tightly and try to remember, he could recall a time when there wasn't as much alcohol on his father's breath, a time when the slaps were gentler and less anger-fueled, and a time where he wasn't beaten at all.

He tried to recall. But quickly what remained of the memories were knocked completely out of his head, replaced by rambling lists and continuous rants of elements and capitals and trivia that he doubted he would ever need in his life.

Where was that strong boy, that Shirosaki he didn't hate, the one who stood up and defended himself with a smug smirk and confidence that belied his present self and that insane, ruthless laughter that would have driven every one of his enemies away?

Where was the person inside himself that had somehow faded?

He cursed, a scowl finally curving the lips he had made to bleed by biting so hard he'd broken the skin there. He flicked out a cobalt blue tongue to lick away the acrid taste of blood and was reminded darkly of how, when he'd first entered Karakura, someone had pointed at him and screamed at the ghastly colour of his tongue. His tongue, of all things. The crowd grew ever so unoriginal nowadays.

His body hurt, but not as much as his mind did. It could not stop racing now—back then, when the running thoughts had been dimmer and easier to stop, a simple beating would have numbed them completely.

Now, they moved on without a single pause, flying through his throbbing head and making it hurt more than it should.

"... Damn it."

His body was on fire. Not as much as his mind was, but it was definitely burning. With the slightest move, a strained gasp was forced out of his beaten form, leaving him without a slightest moment of wait for consent. But he was too tired for this, too tired to stop himself from letting the smallest noises slip from him.

Why can't I fight? Why can't I snap this fucker's neck?

He hated himself as it was. Earlier today, it had been questionable, and there had been a small bit in himself that had thought that there might be still some purchase to his person as it was now, but there was no doubt now.

I hate me. I hate the person I've become.

He must have lay there for hours, because when he next opened his eyes, the shadows had shifted from where he remembered them, the bit of furniture in this bare room had cast their darkness elsewhere, and the moon loomed in the living room window ominously, light pouring over his battered and bloody body.

I want to lie here forever. Why can't I… just end this now?

But after a few minutes of staring numbly at the bright orb in the sky that peered back at him curiously, with some hopeful light in its form that he felt he could simply not grasp for himself, Shiro forced himself to move.

… I won't. I can't.

He might not be strong anymore, but at least he had that one thing that kept his hands to his neck and his lips tight shut, not a single noise escaping that pale abomination that was himself. At least then his father couldn't jeer and laugh like everyone else did.

He had his pride.

As broken and scattered as it was, he had those the small pieces of his what used to be his pride.

Shiro gripped the sofa for support and forced himself up to his feet, sighing at the wakening of pain in his stomach and back. The blood rushed to his head, burning it.

He barely managed to drag himself to his bedroom—for once he was glad there were no stairs in his pitiful little one-story house—but when he'd pushed the door open, bag still slung across his shoulders and shoes still on his feet, he caught sight of his bed and stumbled over once the door had been locked and secure from any midnight beatings that might come.

He passed out almost instantly and fell into a restless sleep.

He didn't pause to consider the homework he didn't even glance at since leaving the school, nor to think about the shot beating he'd taken that night on the street and the little bastard who'd dared to initiate it. He'd contemplate those things tomorrow… if he was still sane enough then.

Right now, all Shiro wanted was a little bit of peace.

END OF CHAPTER 1

So... some of you maybe recognized this. It's a rewrite of my first fic, which honestly wasn't too good, so I took some suggestions and decided to go crazy with this. Because the last fic was too good-and-happy fun times, so I took it, added more labels and violence, and yayz!

Things will be explained in future chapters... And Ichigo doesn't show up for a few, so you'll have to look close to see if you can catch any hints of when he'll show up. ;D

... soooo... I'm gonna go and write the next chapter now.

If you enjoyed, please fave and/or review! Graci!