Authors Note: This fan fiction is all my own. My own ideas and plot. Well, it's actually, D. Gray Man's plot. There are a lot of fan fictions told from the view of an exorcist, but not very many from an akuma's. But that might be because they were like dead, sad souls acting like killing machines. So I thought back to a chapter I read in D. Gray Man. There was an akuma that Cross had somewhat tamed. I don't really remember her name, but there was. That's where I got this idea from. What if I wrote a story from the perspective of an akuma being rehabilitated? And this is the outcome. I hope you enjoy this story! Constructive criticism is always welcome, just not too harsh please.


Chapter 1

I am an akuma. I had no name. And I had no life. The only thing I enjoyed were the screams of the people I killed. I heard them every day. My days passed on and on like a rerun. That was until I met Cross.

I was out, hungry for blood. At level 3, I was hungrier than ever. I wanted to hear the screams. I needed it. I was about to strike a lonely beggar on the street when a searing pain burned through my back. I fell to the ground in agony. Slowly, I felt the pain decrease and the bullet holes become visible to my blurry eyes.

"Impressive," I heard a voice mutter behind me, "Most akuma your level would've died from those shots."

I slowly turned my head, knowing that the voice behind me would be the legendary Cross. He was there. He held his Judgement close to his head, preparing for his next shot. I lunged for him, knowing that I would die. This was Cross Marian. My arm propelled forward, right towards his smug face. He jumped and dodged. It all looked too easy for him. He let another one fly, straight for my chest. The impact was shocking. I crumpled onto the ground and glared at him. I could feel the world crumbling around me and my mind passed through a tunnel. All was black.

I was kneeling at the base of a gravestone. Tears were streaming down my face, I felt like I couldn't breathe. Every breath came out broken and ragged. I felt someone place a hand on my shoulder.

"It'll be okay. It will just take some time," the voice said softly. It would never be okay ever again. The voice was a liar. I swung my arm back angrily and the impact ran through my body as I hit something. Flesh on flesh.

"I hate you! It's your fault! It's always your fault! Die, die, die!" I shouted at the top of my lungs and continued madly swinging at the person. But it didn't work. I was just carried away, back to my own small room. I was just left alone to wallow. I was just left to die.

I thought the walls were closing in on me. I was crazy. The clock continued to tick my life away. Tick, tick, tick. And every hour it would ring a bit, then stop, and then tick again. Tick, tick, tick. It rang through my head. I spent my time crying. Shaking. And pounding my fists on the hard wooden floor until the flesh started to split. On the fourth night, someone came in to bandage my hands. But then he left and never came back. As for food, it was always delivered to me at the same time everyday from a slot through the door. I remembered that I saw somewhere on TV that they did that in prison. Was I in prison?

It was my dad. My smiling, happy dad. The most amazing person in my life. He died. It was actually a sunny day. He probably would've liked to die on a nice and misty day. A more mysterious and gloomy atmosphere seems so much more fitting of a day for someone to die. We were playing outside. The green field spread so far, I couldn't see the city we lived in anymore. It was so nice to be away from that.

I had wanted to run away when I was 6. I wanted to get away from all the smiling people. The fakers, I called them. My mother was the owner of a prestigious cosmetics company. She wasn't what I called an evil step-mom. Or even a mean mom. But she didn't care. She never truly wanted me. Luckily, my dad cared more for me than my mom ever could have. We lived in a very big house. Some people may have called it a mansion. I called it a prison. I hated the gleaming white walls, and the black marble floors in the grand entry way. Hundreds of people were waited on me, listening to my every order. I once told them to help me run away. Of course, my plans were stopped there.

My dad got a phone call. He walked over to the side and put the phone to his ear. The colour immediately disappeared from his face. I was confused. I ran over to him, wondering what was wrong. He muttered something about how we had to go now. I followed him to the car for the long drive back home. I kept pestering him about what that was about. I was 12. I should've known better.

"Just quiet!" he yelled so suddenly, I stepped back. It was the first time he yelled at me, and I didn't like it. I shut up for the rest of the ride home. When we arrived back, I knew something was wrong. Everyone was really quiet. Their eyes gave everything away. Gray and black. Still, I didn't bother anyone too much and continued on as if I didn't know anything.

That night, my dad kissed me on the forehead and said good night. He left the room in silence and I couldn't help looking at him. He stood in the hallway, tall and broad. The light was left on and added a long shadow to my father. He walked slowly to the light and turned it off.

I was back in my dark room. It was the seventh night and I started to ease off the pounding. It hurt. The clock gave a little ring and I knew it was 12:00am. I hated everything. I curled up into a ball and waited for my world to stop. Instead, I felt another hand on my shoulder. But this time, when I looked up, it was the Earl.

Cross stood with the gun down, and a hand on my shoulder. I was crying. I didn't know that I could cry. I felt limp.

"I will name you Kumiko Child," Cross Marian whispered in a quiet voice. I liked it.