Hi! Sorry this is so poorly written! It was just a dumb idea I had a long time ago, and it's also the first fanfic I've actually gone through with putting up on here. Anyways, of course reborn is not mine, and neither are any of its amazing characters. Please Read and Review!
Chapter One
The little boy frowned and turned up his collar against the cold. He tried huddling closer
to the brick wall of the alley, but the stone was unyielding and didn't offer any warmth. The people passing by were in a hurry, and so no one noticed the small, dirty boy. No one stopped to ask him if he had lost his mum, or make sure that he was okay.
But the little boy was used to it. Sometimes he'd try to beg, but he didn't like to feel weak. Weak… the word brought back unpleasant memories.
~flashback~
"Get your sorry little butt outta here," the man yelled, moving forward with a threatening, dominating force.
"Or I swear I will punch that stupid mouth offa your sorry face."
"Papa- I just-" the little boy's eyes were wide with fear, and he cowered in the corner.
"Papa! Papa!" the man mocked.
"You are a weak piece of crap you mutt. Get outta my house mutt."
The man stepped forward, brandishing a wooden bat.
The boy was trapped in the corner- he had nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide.
"That's right, mutt!" the man yelled, encouraged now.
"Run! Run! See if you can outsmart your old man you smart- alec mutt!"
The little boy made a dash for it, but not before the man swung his bat, smashing it into the boy's head.
The boy fell stumbling, his vision growing dark and starry. The pain hit him like a freight train and he felt like he would explode. The boy cried out and the man hit him again. Whack! The bat snapped down on the boy's limp form. Thankfully, the boy passed out, and he welcomed the blackness over the pain.
When night came, the boy woke up, covered in his own blood. He could hear the television in the living room making fuzzy static noise, and he could hear his papa snoring loudly and drunkenly. Now was his chance to make his escape. The boy ran upstairs and put on his other striped shirt along with his father's long 'work' coat. He also grabbed his knife- the one think that made him feel safer. If he had a weapon, no one would hurt him anymore.
The boy, ready to go now, crept down the squeaking stairs, holding his throbbing head, and praying that his papa wouldn't wake up and catch him running away. As he opened the door and stepped out into the streets of the slums of Italy, the boy paused and looked back at the building where his papa lived.
'Good-bye, papa,' the boy thought. 'Someday I'll come back and show you just how wrong you were. Someday I'll come back and show you I'm not weak!'
~end flashback~
The boy shook his head, clearing the memories. They were gone now. History. He looked after one person only: himself. And he did a pretty good job too. He stole when he was hungry. When he was cold, he distracted himself. When he was tired, he found back alleys and gutters. And occasionally, when he did want to buy something, he helped the various mafia gangs that littered the area. They had seemed pretty amused at first when this seemingly weak boy had come up to them asking for a job, but he had shown them. He had shown them his wicked knife-throwing skills and his intelligence, wit, and spying skills.
An eight-year-old boy was a lot less suspicious than a man in a suit, he insisted. And he had gotten jobs. Improved his skills. Learned his lessons. If he worked hard, and the business was good, he was full. If he failed to get a job, food was harder to come by, and he starved.
He could even find shelter with the mafia sometimes. They treated him like a nephew- took him in. And it was from the mafia that the little boy first felt any feelings of acceptance. Not love, or worry, or care, but acceptance. A feeling that he was worth something. And that was enough for him. He didn't need love. Not when he had the mafia and his throwing knives.