Disclaimer: I don't own FullMetal Alchemist.
I see the world in pictures. In colors.
Words and numbers hold no interest for me. They are simply a group of pictures formed into a certain line, a certain pattern. A certain set. I don't like knowing that one thing is supposed to be certain. Uncertainty makes things exciting, allows your inner artist to bloom.
I'm called many things at school. An idiot. A freak. Teachers shudder at the thought of me occupying their class; my fellow peers scoff and taunt me in the hallways, in classes. On the bus. Anywhere where they can sneak in, slip a nasty insult, and then slip out. People never seem to realize that the joke isn't as funny when you're on the retrieving end of it.
The bullying started when I was ten. That was the year that I realized math and reading don't hold any value to me. Why do I need math if my lifelong dream is to become a painter? So, I started to fall behind everyone else. I spent time in class drawing different forms and shapes instead of taking notes.
My teacher started to grow concerned when I was inching just below a C. She called my mother, and they had a long and tiring argument before Mother slammed the phone back on the receiver. I could see angry tears cascading down her face, her dirty woolen apron littered with moth-eaten holes. For a long time, she just stood there, before spinning around and kneeling on the floor in front of me. She clung to me, her hands wrapped around my back, her tears spilling into my hair. I gingerly raised my hand onto her back and patted it.
"It'll be okay, Mama, it'll be okay," I murmured. My speech came out slow. Broken.
It's been five years now and I'm still stuck in the same spot. I've become infamous over the years, often referred to as the freak of the class. The idiot. A waste of energy. They all think I'm stupid, that they are one step above me. This is not true. Not in the slightest.
Although I despise the words and numbers doesn't mean I don't remember them. Everyone in my family uses them constantly, which makes it difficult to run away from. My mother is a journalist; my father, a chemist. My brother sits in his room for hours on end, studying. Trying to outdo everyone else in his class. My brother's well known for being the genius of the school. How ironic that he would end up having someone like me as a brother.
My brother has seen me be picked on a few times before at school. It's usually a semi-large group of his friends who are doing it. Sometimes, he tells them to stop, in which they reluctantly listen to him and walk away. Other times, he simply watches, shakes his head, and leaves.
I don't have any friends at school. I've seen quite a few people give me sympathetic looks as they walk by when I'm being beaten, but they don't do anything to help. They all stay away from me during lunch, afraid that if they sat next to me, they'd be bullied as well. This leaves room for the bullies to step in and cause hell for me.
Everyday I'm beaten down, both mentally and physically. The words are just as bad as the blows. That's why I hate them. Words can do awful things to a person. They're like an evil snake, wrapping tightly around your body, refusing to let go. Squeezing you until you can't draw in a breath. It sucks away your laughter, your happiness. It kills you from the inside.
It seems like I've died again and again.
Alphonse seems pretty OOC in this chapter, which is not what I was going for. Oops.
Sorry for it being so short, this is more of a prologue than anything else. I wanted to put some action in, but I realized that the way I was writing it didn't really allow me to put in any real scenes yet, so I decided to maket his more of an introductory than anything else.
Hope you enjoyed!