Dark Childhood

5/4/07

By Organization XIII rules

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Disclaimer:

I'm Organization XIII rules... yeah, the funky-hair dude who owns this fic. Mm-hmm... funny. Now, anyway, just to let the whole world know... ahem... I DON'T OWN MONSTERS INC. Do I look like Disney and/or Pixar? Do I look like a genius? Well, actually, I look like a mad scientist... uh, ha-ha, no comment. Do I wish I owned Monsters Inc.? Yes, me, and this group of fans behind me... there's hundreds of them.

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Prologue

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Young Randall loved the sunset; he loved to watch it through his window. He was attentive, paying close notice to the sky and sun changing colors. He took his small light-blue camera and took a picture; the digital results were a golden sun and blue sky, which were slowly melting into pinkish sun and purple sky -- the complete opposite contrasts were fun to compare. The pink sun was now sinking behind the mountaintops, while Randall printed out the photographic results, posting it into his "scrapbook".

Thin, purple, webbed fingers ran over the dark navy blue surface of the scrapbook's front cover. Randall's name was made up of colorful stickers, others included smiley faces, monsters, bugs, and stars. He recorded every day of his life in this treasure that had been kept track of since last year. He closed the thick-rimmed book, taking care not to bend any of the pop-up images or extended images that reached off the page, yet kept straight.

From his tiny bedroom, he watched through the glass to see what was going on in the outside world. He lived in the ghetto, but the upper-town section, where supposedly no danger lived. In parking lots, he watched the vehicles drive by to look for a spot. On the street, he watched monsters tried to cross, while cars patiently waited. He could see a lot from the third-floor view given to him. He eyed a silver minivan, looking as it pulled up onto the gravel. His eyes narrowed, his mouth shut, and his expression calm... yet irritated. A middle-aged, oddly-matched monster couple got out of the car, carrying cardboard boxes with mysterious items inside. The couple strangely resembled octopuses; the man had a moustache, and groomed it straight.

This weird couple made Randall realize how much he stood out from the normal. Most monsters had certain characteristics that made them similar, such as four limbs only (arms and legs), multiple limbs (usually meaning they have six to ten), sluggish appearance, spines on their back, etc. Randall, however, was tall for his age, and most would say he was the skinniest they've ever seen in their lifetimes. He stared at the pathways outside, leading to the local park to the left, ignoring the couple who were entering the orphanage: the place he had called 'home' for three months now. His attention drifted to the cliffsides of the mountain, and the sun sinking behind it...

He sighed, trying not to think. He was grateful for many things, and had to be reminded daily to be appreciative, because the worst could've been staying homeless, begging for food at the inn, holding a penny jar. However, the orphanage wasn't perfect, nor was it bad. He loved the library his room was close to -- it held dusty couches, a decaying rug, and worn-out chairs, though, but with the advantage of humongous shelves of books. In his room, there were two beds, but the other was unused, and he doubted he'd want to share this room with anyone.

Silently, he crawled off his easy chair -- the one perched by the desktop, where he'd spend artistic time and concentration at the sunset or watching outside his window -- and slithered onto his bed, using his reptilian abilities to the fullest, since they were being abused by lack of exercise. He lied down on one of the beds -- his favorite one was by the window -- to think about life, and all the things to be grateful for. He was very thankful for everything... even the stiff mattress he was lying on at that very moment. After a small thought, he shivered and felt cold, so in natural survival instinct, he crawled off the bed and went to his dresser to find something warm to wear.

His fingers ran across the drawer, reaching toward the rusted gold knob, and pulling the case open to peek inside. He found a school uniform and a spare, and of course he was wise enough to keep a spare. Beneath that, he pulled out a dress uniform, which was a tuxedo-type, used for formal gatherings or whatever special holiday event being planned at the orphanage. Soon, he was unsatisified at finding something warm. He closed that drawer and opened the one above it to find some casual clothes. A red sweater was found... he grimaced while putting the itchy thing on, but at least it was cozy in some form. His scales felt uncomfortable with polyester or cotton sometimes.

He curled up on his dusty pillow, trying to heat up. His tired eyes closed in concentration, and his long neck felt sore. It wasn't long until the clock alarm went off, signaling the time was 4:55 PM, five minutes until his adoption interview. He groaned, and slowly got off his bed, taking off the ridiculous sweater and grabbed his scrapbook. Down the narrow stairway, he could hear three voices -- one belonged to his caretaker, a feminine voice came after, and a deeper voice. His best guess was that the cephalapodian couple were the "Mr. and Mrs. Cliff" who wanted to meet him.

A startled gasp came when he opened the door. His eyes slightly widened, but still kept narrow, calm, and serious. He had swung the door wide open, and he guessed that maybe the quick motion scared somebody. After knowing a lot of people, he knew that some monsters were scared of fast movement. An awkward silence lasted when Randall had entered the room, and he still pertained that serious expression, without once breaking out into laughter or even a smile. Finally, after snapping out of his imagination, he realized that it was indeed his caretaker and the cephalapodian couple, and that he was right. "Of course." Randall thought. Finally, the feminine voice of his caretaker spoke up, "Uh - um... Randall, it's so nice to see you."

Randall blinked: the only sign that everyone could tell that he wasn't dead... he was so still like a statue that they couldn't even see his chest rising and falling, or his muscles twitch. He said in a boyish tone (he's still a kid, remember?), "Mm-hmm." He glanced over at the couple; they resembled octopuses seriously and clearer up-close than from the noticeable distance. His shifty eyes flicked up and down, absorbing the sight of them, and shrugged with a "can't complain" expression.

The caretaker gathered enough courage to stand from her seat, and close the door when Randall had walked in. She smiled apologetically, holding a clipboard, almost grasping onto it. "I'm sorry. Randall's a little... swift." Ah, so it was motion that frightened them in their peace and quiet. "I'm sure he didn't mean to barge in so suddenly..." Her eyes gave a piercing glare at him. "Randall...?"

"Mm-hmm." He replied in the same tone as earlier, with a slow nod and slouched composture. His elegant, long neck looked over at the other two monsters once more, still examining and studying their appearances. Of course, he didn't know that it could offend some people, since they thought that he was disgusted, and that's why he was staring for such long periods of time.

The caretaker smiled nervously again, "... Randall? This is Mr. and Mrs. Cliff, you know, the nice people who want to adopt you. Maybe you could... show them some of your abilities? Maybe you could introduce yourself properly?" She offered anxiously, and when nobody was paying attention to her, she placed her clipboard to the side and watched with sinking hope.

"Hey." Randall said quietly, but audible to the ear. "I'm Randall Boggs."

The woman laughed, "Thank you for telling us your name..." she said, looking over at her unimpressed husband, as she tried to keep the conversation flowing, "So... how old are you, Randall?"

"Didn't they tell you that?" Randall thought, and answered, "Ten." His heart nearly stopped when the man glared at him, and he could feel himself blushing with embarrassment, or maybe it was just that he was a little... shy?

After what seemed like an eternity, the man said, "A little young, aren't you?" This time, Randall was the one being examined and stared at for a very long time. He always felt uncomfortable at these interviews, because most foster parents didn't like him... they thought he was too isolated.

"What did you expect when you heard the name 'Randall Boggs'? A sixteen-year-old?" Randall thought to himself again, but simply said, "Mm-hmm."

"He looks rather tall for being just ten. I thought he was twelve or thirteen." The wife said; Randall was unsure whether to take that as a compliment or insult. But decidedly took it as a compliment, even if it wasn't intended to be. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, his caretaker patting the chair beside her, and he sat down beside her. Randall found it difficult to sit in a chair since he was built with a serpent-like body, so usually he'd approach the chair from behind, slither on, and sit with his tail draped off the edge of the chair, with one pair of hind legs hanging off the front edge, and his two pairs of arms preoccupied doing something else.

"So, Randall, do you have any favorite hobbies?" The woman asked, and for the first time Randall cared to check what she really looked like. Well, despite the cephalapodian resemblence, she actually only had six limbs, as did her husband. She was orange, and the husband was purple, but for some strange reason, she was bigger in size than her husband was.

"Go ahead, Randall." The caretaker urged, noticing that Randall was too occupied and unknowingly staring bizarrely at the couple, which almost made them figure he was racist. After all, this was the ghetto, and who knows if cephalapodian creatures were "not to his tastes", like some prejudicial individuals would say. When Randall noticed his caretaker's concerned expression, he found no immediate response to her words, or his possible mother-to-be's words. He had to search inside his mind to find what to say without looking foolish or humiliated.

The foster parents were examining his thin figure like computer scanners. The caretaker smiled, and so did the wife. "You nervous, Randall?" He almost wanted to get really angry, because he felt as if they were judging him too harshly already. But since he hadn't responded, they had assumed that.

"I'm an artist..." Randall said distantly, revealing his scrapbook, "I do crafts." He thought about what he just said, and remembered previous visits with foster parents, where he was harassed... "Crafts? Ain't that for the ladies?" His firm grip tightened and his arm went stiff, but nevertheless continued, "I take photographs with my digital camera, I draw pictures, and... I have this scrapbook."

The expressions written on the parents' faces seemed like they thought he was gifted and/or talented, which was an early, but good sign. He continued talking by opening his scrapbook and showing pictures, "These are of the sunset... I marked the dates, the time, what I was feeling when I saw it... These are passerbys on the street, taken also on date, time, and my opinion of them... this isn't to be critical -- it's actually to study the anatomy and structural build of people, because I'm learning how to draw them better. The images still look a little screwed up, but I know that eventually, I'll get it right."

"So far, so good..." Randall guessed by the pleased looks on his caretaker's and the cephalapodian couple's faces. He hoped nothing terrible, as in embarrassing or humiliating, would happen now. The wife spoke up after some silence, "So Randall Boggs, ten years old, creative, right?"

"Yes, ma'am." Randall said, trying to display the politeness he adapted and used daily to authority, a principle his caretaker was required to teach him. Respect for authority...

"What have you learned in school?" She asked; Randall froze, unsure of what to say next. He looked at his caretaker, who made a gesture for him to continue. Lately, Randall had been lazy and didn't really care to memorize important facts... that was so unlike the bright ten-year-old that arrived on the orphanage doorstep that foggy evening three months ago. It was the second month here that melted his kind behavior to carelessness... just to know that nobody cared about him.

Randall thought things over wisely before saying anything that could damage his appearance, "... I know elementary basics." He said, completely in a out-of-the-blue matter. The wife had an amused smile and gasp, and the husband rose an eyebrow in disbelief and curiosity. Was he really that smart for a ten-year-old, to actually know what 'elementary basics' means? Most twelve-year-olds don't even know how to spell or pronounce pteranadon -- something Randall mastered at seven years old -- that flying dinosaur from the cretaceous period.

"What sort of basics?" the wife questioned, tilting her giant head to one side.

Randall gulped, "English basics... composition, grammar, writing skills... For example, I know capitalization and punctuation, nouns, forms of speech, verbs, easy stuff like that. I'm a good speller." He said, squinting one eye.

The husband scoffed, "Can you spell pachyderm?"

Randall blinked, "P-A-C-H-Y-D-E-R-M."

The husband's jaw dropped and the wife applauded quietly in the background. A ten-year-old reptile-like monster that can spell an elephant's scientific name... how unique is that? Randall continued nevertheless, still serious with narrowed eyes, "For mathematics... I've covered those general math basics, like fractions, graphs, addition, subtraction, multiplication, division, and problem-solving..."

Out of nowhere, the husband, seemingly unimpressed, asked, "What's 21 times 3?"

"62." Randall answered, way too quickly.

The couple was silent... the wife said, "I couldn't do that until I was fifteen."

"Ditto." the husband included.

Randall shrugged, "Math is my best subject." That was probably true, due to the fact he was extremely creative, inventive, and productive, unlike most kids his age with short attention spans, carelessness about life and its purpose, and useless until they're eighteen. "Science basics..." He pondered for a moment, trying to gather his memories from it, "I... learned about the planet... outer space, rocks, bugs, life, fish, machines, robots, and stuff..."

"He's quite intelligent." the wife observed.

"What, it's not like he knows college physics." the husband concluded with a huff.

"3rd grade." Randall said, crossing his arms. When he was eight years old...

"Well, ok, what about history?" the wife asked.

History. That dreaded subject... Randall did NOT have a care or good memory about the subject at all. Most kids loved history, and hey, he couldn't complain about it, but he couldn't record very adequate data unless it was in his scrapbooks. He couldn't really remember who Christopher Colochness (Chris Colombus haha) was and what purpose he served in today's times. "Um, history?" Randall asked.

"He has a tutor on that." His caretaker saved him. "Right now he's studying the monster presidents!"

"Ah, an interesting subject indeed." the husband said, "History is my best subject, and my wife loves English." Crud. The only two things Randall struggled in when he didn't get enough study-time.

"He's quite handy with math and science, though." the wife observed. "Besides school, and your creative abilities... Do you have any social interaction?"

"Uh..." Randall froze like an iceberg, and looked over at his caretaker, wondering what that was supposed to exactly 'mean'. Suddenly he said, "I used to have a roommate last month..."

"Oh, really?" the wife said, "What was he like?"

Randall blushed, "... she..."

The cephalapodian couple's eyes got huge... The caretaker said, "Anna Bakeston had nowhere to go, the entire orphanage was full, except for Randall's room, so... she stayed there for two weeks until she got parents easily. She was twelve."

"I see." the husband said, keeping a close eye on Randall, who was now pretty embarrassed that they had to ask about social interactions. "Other than that...?"

"No, not really." Randall sighed, "People say I'm in isolation." The couple didn't look impressed. "That's why nobody likes me..." They felt pity now... that was a first. Firsts were good, sometimes.

"So, would you like to be around lots of people?" the wife asked, "Like, how about... camping?"

"Ew, no." Randall said, "I can't tolerate great amounts of country music." He didn't mean to offend them, but... country? He didn't really like the noises of banjos, harmonicas, and freaky instruments played by rednecks. He had bad memories from them... bad.

"Well, how about nature walks?" the husband asked, but it felt like he was saying: "Is it really that you don't like country music, or is it that you just plain don't like country?"

Randall felt really bad now... "I don't really do nature walks." He shook his head in embarrassment, and even... a little shame.

Changing the subject, the wife asked, "Do you like fancy restaurants? Every child in the right mind likes..." They looked at Randall. Her eyes got serious and wide, "You don't like fancy restaurants...?"

"Not... really." Randall said, seeing he wasn't passing the test for them.

The wife looked disappointed, "No antique shops either?"

Randall shook his head, "And I don't even like video games." With that, the husband remarked that this child was abnormal, and they left the room. The caretaker felt horrible, and ran after them, shutting the door tight. At the loud thump, Randall flinched, and his fronds drooped in abashment. His eyes squinted, trying to keep tears from spilling over. He failed again... nothing, not even death, was worse than failure for him. Failure meant not getting it correct, it meant being called wrong, and it meant bad appearance, and that was the main key why nobody adopted him. Another interview that has landed in miserable failure. The foster parents now left the building, unsatisfied with that 'sick and twisted child', as they commented, Randall could hear it sharply through the window glass.

He felt awkward and insecure now... he slouched down, sliding down from the firm grip he had against the tall wall, slithering all the way down until he was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His fist clenched, and he pounded it down hard, before a tear ran down his cheek. He wiped it away, gained his sanity, and stood upright again, ready to face whoever came in. It was his caretaker again, she looked just as miserable and disappointed as he did. Shutting the door, she looked at him apologetically, "Randall... I'm so sorry... for putting you through this all over again."

That was a positive thing to look at that grateful day. His caretaker actually... listened to him, cared about his feelings and emotions, and helped him through rough situations like this. She actually cared about him, and was one of the few who'd bother. A grin sprawled on his face, "... It's okay." He said.

"No, it's not okay." the caretaker said, almost in tears, as he could see.

Randall reached up, since he was shorter than her, to wipe the tears off her face. "No, really, it's okay." He said, looking up to her, and opening the door, and with his last words being, "Nobody ever liked me anyway. Not my parents, not my family, not my so-called friends, and obviously everybody else." He shut the door, and the orphanage seemed a lot quieter and gloomier... almost the same feeling as if a tragic loss happened.

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Author's Note:

Ta-da, first chapter! I want to write a Randall fic of what happened when he was young (yes, I'm aware that there's LOTS of stories like this out there), but what will make this one different from the others is that, like all stories, it has a different plot and idea, and not to mention, different author. This childhood story might be good... depends on what you think. I re-did a portion of this from my last draft, making Randall ten instead of eleven, in case anybody points this out. As to why, you'll see it benefits my storyline if he's a year younger so I can add cool stuff.

Also, about Randall being a supergenius... I knew college physics stuff when I was 8. Yeah, I'm weird... make fun of me. Ha-ha... you have permission to flame me just for being intelligent.

Please tell me if you find any errors or something you dislike. And please, please, PLEASE tell me if somebody's already come up with some of my ideas. I don't want anybody to think I'm "copying" them... even though this ideas are purely from my imagination and most likely shouldn't be already thought of from somebody else. Enjoy the story! Title, chapter flow, and other various things are subject to notice. Sorry about the mess... I'm a 14-year-old writer, go easy on me, please.

Author's Response:

FicCheck: Thanks for reviewing my works, both Dark Childhood and Average Monster! Somehow, these two stories will connect to each other. For now, Average Monster is on a very long hiatus, so I can finish Dark Childhood, which is a fic in Randall's point-of-view, something I've been wanting to do for a long time. Also, there'll be Childhood Laughter, the complete opposite story, based on Sulley instead. Pretty awesome, huh? Thank you again for reviewing my works and giving me some cool newspaper ideas for Average Monster, that I have yet to use. Thank you!

SylverStrike: Aw, thank you... I was almost worried I didn't add enough description on some things, like for example, what his room looked like. Maybe I should add it in the second chapter, so the visuals come strong. I thank you a million times for reviewing, since most who look at my fics don't. You rule!

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(c) fic to Organization XIII rules

I still don't own the characters, just the fic.

(c) Randall Boggs to Pixar/Disney

(c) Monsters Inc. to Pixar/Disney

(c) Caretaker & Mr.-Mrs. Cliff to Organization XIII rules

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