He despised getting up in the morning.
Every day was the same monotonous routine; he would awaken grouchily from his pleasant slumber, reluctantly arise from his comfortable bed, crabbily wash his mouth, halfheartedly eat his food, and unenthusiastically depart from his precious home for another day of class.
Oh how he hated this routine.
Of course, his parents supported him all throughout his day. Whenever he refused to get up at the sound of the alarm, his mother would patiently wobble him awake. Whenever he did not feel like washing him mouth or taking a shower, his father would walk into the bathroom, pat him in the back twice (it was always twice, never three times or four) and join him in his morning cleansing. His parents were always there at the dinner table with the brightest smiles, waiting unwearyingly for their child to join them in breakfast.
Not that he did not mind the attention. In fact, he craved it.
Sometimes he would sleep in on purpose, just to have his parents come and wake him up.
It wasn't difficult for his parents to discern false behaviors from real one. Still, they did not fuss whenever their child feigned disinterest.
They knew that he enjoyed their company, and they loved spending as much time as they could with their son.
But despite the fact that he valued the quality and intimate time spent with his beloved parents, the mundane routines he underwent on a day by day basis irked him to a great extent.
Since they ultimately led to the same, undesired end.
School.
The walk to school was okay. Their village was rather small, so it did not take much of his time to leave his house and arrive at the school. As an added bonus, the sights around the village were impeccable. Looking at layer up layer of crops growing from around the fields always filled his mind with curiosity and wonder.
Feeling the breeze on his hair made him feel free, as if the constraints of life held no power on the boy. Walking on the dirt road empowered him, similar to overcoming the strenuous climb of a large mountain. The sounds and sights that he passed along during his daily trek to and from school were some of the highlights of his day, and he always looked forward to detouring around the fields and exploring a bit more than what he usually saw.
His home life was fantastic. His journeys around the village was worthwhile. If he thoroughly enjoyed the time he spent on these simple pleasures, why did he hate waking up to another splendid morning?
It was because of the scorn he felt everyday upon stepping foot on school grounds.
"Oi, demon! Gonna spirit me away with your freaky eyes?"
"Man, those eyes are disgusting! Your parents really should just rip them out and replace them with something normal."
"Really, why the hell aren't you wearing contacts? Man those eyes are so gross to look at!"
"Neh neh, do you think that if it painted over his eyes it would stop looking like some rat?"
"Seriously, why is it looking this direction? Man, I don't wanna get infected by its monstrous disease."
"Freak of nature!"
"Hellspawn!"
"Filthy rodent!"
"Demon!"
"Bakemono!"
"Monster!"
Every day he went through such ignominy from his classmates. They did not even bother to be subtle with their stigma. They took pleasure out of ostracizing the poor boy. They stared and laughed, pointed and grunted. They threw rocks at him. They did all that they could to put the boy down. Make him more beneath the beneath than dirt is under the heel of their boots.
And, loathe as he to admit it, it worked.
He was a silent presence. He tried to be invisible by disassociating with any and every one. But that proved futile. Some ignoramus with a fetish for his pain would just walk up to him, hands on hips, and throw some mud at his face. Or a group of girls would giggle uncontrollably when he passed them by. No matter how intent he was at disguising his presence, someone would just reintroduce him to the harsh reality he had grown accustomed to.
He tried appealing to the teachers. He worked extra hard to get good grades so that they could sympathize with his plight. Unfortunately, his instructors were as cold and unforgiving as the children. In fact, they frequently went out of their way to sabotage his good standing at the school. They would deliberately switch out his test with more difficult, practically impossible exams, or they would change his answers so that he would always answer incorrectly.
Still, no matter what form of interference the teachers engaged, he would find a way to come out on top. If anything, he still wanted to impress his parents with his placement in the class.
The kids did not take kindly to his growing success. They increased the destructive insults tenfold, to the point where walking inside a room initiated the class-wide discussion on how grotesque the malformed abomination was. Boys would intentionally push him towards the ground, girls would point, gossip, and giggle at every chance they got, and teacher would ignore him to the best of their abilities, in spite of his higher-than-average grades. Over here, in this detestable school, he was universally reviled.
In the beginning, the isolation hurt him considerably. He would run all the way home after school and cry himself to sleep, making sure to lock the door and close the windows so that no one could hear his despair. But when it became clear that the discrimination would never cease, he just began to tolerate it.
Every shove to the ground, he would just get back up and brush off the dirt.
Every gossip whispered, he would just subconsciously block off.
Every test sabotaged, he would redo over and over again until it was impossible to deny him his rightfully earned credit.
Really, he hated his daily routine. He never wanted to deal with the stigma. He did not want to deal with the imposed isolation. He just wanted to laugh and have fun, enjoy the time spent with friends and teachers.
Cut him some slack. It wasn't his fault that he was born with heterochromia.
He always questioned that fact. His father had a pair of deep, dark onyx eyes while his mother had the most striking pair of milky white eyes. Naturally, he should have gotten one or the other.
But instead, he was born with his left eye blacker than the darkest night and his right eye whiter than the most luminescent star.
His family always complimented his unique condition. They really enjoyed how his eyes could be so contrasting, yet so appealing at the same time. They felt that his eyes were some of the most beautiful they had ever seen before, and they could not have been more proud of him.
The students and faculty in his school had a different opinion in mind.
They found his condition to be disturbing. They could never look him in the eyes when they conversed with him, quickly becoming disgusted with the unnatural sight. To the kids, he looked as though he was blinded in one eye and forced to wear a lazy glass eye. His eyes were not as cool as his father, or as enticing as his mother. They were a grotesque blend of the worst kind.
The glares always got to him though. He tried to ignore the stares coming from apparently everyone in the village, but it was no use. They would sneer at him, stare at him with pity, or look down on him as if he were a whipped dog with his tail tucked beneath his legs.
He tried to wear sunglasses to cover his eyes. They would work during the trek to school every day. Nobody paid any particular attention to the kid with average sunglasses dancing around the road. Some of the folks he passed by would even say hi to him, blissfully unaware of his condition.
But the moment he walked into school, the rules and regulations were slammed on him. No child was allowed to wear hats or sunglasses during school hours, so he was forced to take them off. He would have thought that, if they were so horrified by his heterochromia, they would have allowed him to continue wearing the sunglasses for the rest of the day. But the kids and teachers needed to satisfy some sick sense of vindication, just so that they can boost their rock-bottom self-esteem. It was a pitiable sight, but he could do nothing about the unfairness of his predicament.
The first try he wore his glasses in school, a group of kids surrounded him on his way to lunch. They took turns shoving him around the encirclement, punching or kicking him whenever they felt the need. After they were happy with the damage they caused to him, they pushed him on the ground, snatched his glasses from his head, and stomped on them until they cracked into a thousand tiny pieces. Picking the glass shards from the ground, they threw the remains at him as hard as they could, laughing maniacally in the process.
He was called into the Grandmaster's office after the "hazing." The Grandmaster penalized him for disobeying the school rules, forcing him to clean the classrooms after school was over. He threatened more corporal punishment should he continue this "gross act of insubordination." Predictably, none of the bullies were reprimanded for their acts against him. There was nothing he could do except cry himself to sleep.
His parents, noticing the physical and emotional abuse, tried to reason with the Grandmaster to at least provide justice for those intolerable actions. But he merely reminded them that this was the only elementary school within several miles, and that if they were dissatisfied they could just simply leave. Reluctantly, he held their tongue and looked at their child with hints of melancholy and defeat.
He understood. He forgave them. Really, there was nothing anyone could do pertaining to his predicament. At least they tried. He still loved them for their concern and their efforts. But it only pained him even more how life seemed to take its problems on him and him alone.
Truly, how he hated his mornings.
His family could not simply leave the village. They did not discuss much of their past, but apparently they were "missing-nin" from the shinobi village Konohagakure no Sato. In fact, it was a relief that this village was willing to harbor them from the relentless hunter-nin squads that flooded out of Konoha on a regular basis. They were not willing to sacrifice what little happiness they had so that their son could have a better education.
They knew it was selfish, but they had no other choice. If the hunter-nin had located them, they would kill them on the spot, eradicating all evidence of their existence, including that of their son.
He was fully aware of the danger he was in, so he did not blame his parents. It's funny, but he had always thought that the abuse he was dealing with was infinitely better than being killed and having his existence written of the memories of everyone he knew. He couldn't understand why he held on to such naïve optimism, but it was a comforting thought in the face of the entire stigma he was faced with. Yes. In spite of all of the problems he dealt with, he held firm to the belief that one day, everything will get better.
Or, at least that's what he hoped would happen.
Nothing particularly interesting occurred during his walk to school. The weather was wonderful for the start of summer, with trees in full bloom and the heat skyrocketing with each passing day. He could feel his sweat drop from his forehead down to his chin, but he just let the perspiration slide. He wasn't particularly fond of wiping the sweat out of his brow, even if it rolled down to some of his more sensitive parts of his face, like underneath his nostril.
It was his hair that he was worried about. His shoulder length, silky smooth black hair was prone to frizzling as the temperature increased. He would rather not his appearance be unkempt, in the vague likelihood that someone does take an interest in him other than bullying or harassment. So, as much as he dreaded it, he hurried to school as quickly as he could to spend the least amount of time outdoors.
He arrived at school a little earlier than he had planned. He always came to school just as the morning bells rang, so that he could avoid spending anytime with potential assholes hounding his every move. Quietly, he prayed that he would be blessed by Lady Fortune to escape his morning scorning. But, as luck would have it, he was caught by three such individuals.
"Hey Bakemono, where do you think you're goin'?" The leader of the group asked.
"N-nowhere sir," The boy answered. He found that rubbing their inflated sense of self-worth tended to lessen whatever punishment was in store for him, and as an opportunistic young boy, he took whatever chance he had to diminish the suffering he had to go through.
"See, now that's where you are wrong." The leader corrected the boy. "What you were about-" One of the boys kicked his knee in, forcing him to bend towards the leader. "-to do was-" Another boy grabbed his head and slammed it hard on the ground, making sure the boy could see nothing but the rotting shoes of his oppressors. "-give me and me boys a proper shoe shinin'!"
The three boys laughed and clapped each other with a sense of victory. They were looking very much forward to what was in store for today.
"Pardon my observation, sir," The boy hissed, adding not-so-subtle sarcasm to the way he referred to his oppressors. "But from where I could see things, your shoes look perfectly clean."
That smart comment got him a kick in his eye. Blood trailed down his face from his cream-colored eyes as the sclera was growing tinted red from a potentially busted blood vessel. The boy did not cry out in pain; no he was too used to this brutality to let something so small as a popped blood vessel hurt him.
"Oi," The leader said, tapping his feet on the ground. "I don't mean to make your fuckin' disgusting eyes even more hideous—er, strike that I'd take great pleasure in makin' you look more like a demon—but me and the boys don't take too kindly to smart-alecks." The leader said while chuckling at the boy's expense. "But, now would you look at that! My fuckin' shoes are covered in your fuckin' blood! Goodness, mama spent hours washin' these shoes yesterday. I think you owe me an apology."
"I'm dreadfully sorry sir," The boy said. 'That your mom is a cock-sucking whore whose flappy vagina can't satisfy any man, and that her stupidity caused her to drop you in fucking head when you were born. You must've cracked your skull when you hit the ground and now you have bone fragments scatter all over your puny brain! Maybe that's why you are a fucking retard. Damn, you are such a piece of fucking cow turd, getting off on clean shoes. Freak…'
"If it would please you, I will diligently clean your shoes and write a letter of apology to your mom afterwards, profusely apologizing for any trouble that I have caused you."
"See, that's why I like you…" The leader retorted. The boys around him joined in the laughter at the irony behind his words. "You're a quiet, obedient little freak, aren't you? I don't see why people treat you so badly."
'Go fucking stab yourself with a rusted spoon in front of a mirror you degenerate prick.'
"Now then," The leader said, cueing the bully grabbing his head to lift it slightly. "Get to cleaning…"
The leader held his shoe up towards the boy's face. It was a putrid sight to say the least, but the boy was in no position to argue. With a bloodied eye and two boys holding him down, the only thing he could do was submit.
As he licked his own blood off the shoe of his despots, he lamented his lack of power. There was nothing he could do to get himself out of this predicament. If only he was a bit stronger… If only he could fight and defeat the leader. Alas, even if he could, he knew that would not break the mold already established in the school. It will only serve to enhance and strengthen the stigma he felt on a daily basis. The kids and the teachers were very envious of his capabilities, and they did anything they could to stunt his growth.
If, somehow, he had gained the power to rise up and refuse these punishments, he would still fail in the process. The entire school was out to get him, not just individual groups or people. He could not possibly fight everyone that wronged him, and even if he could, the repercussions against his family would be catastrophic. They would potentially be exiled from the village, forced to continue they senseless flight from the hunter-nin.
Thinking of that possibility, he remembered a crucial detail. His parents came from a shinobi village, right? Shouldn't that make them…well…shinobi? If that were the case, maybe they could teach him a few self-defense techniques! Yeah, maybe that way he wouldn't be as horribly humiliated as he was right now!
The thought pleased him very much, and he rapidly finished cleaning the rest of the leader's shoes.
"Oh, finished already?" The leader said. "Mighty impressive, aren't ya bakemono?" He began to walk away from the boy, while the other two bullies pressured him closer to the ground. It was practically impossible to move from his position, so there was nothing he could do but stare in confusion at what the leader had planned.
"Sad thing is though…" The leader said, growing a malicious smile on his mouth. He stopped in front of a small mud puddle.
'Oh no…' The boy thought in horror, quickly connecting the dots.
The leader proceeded to jump enthusiastically throughout the mud pile. He jumped energetically, stomping when hard on the ground and making sure to cover every aspect of his shoe in the vilest muck. When he was done, he walked slowly and triumphantly back towards the boy.
"…Ya missed a spot." He said laughing at the pained face the boy was expressing. The two other bullies repeated what the leader had done, also defiling their shoes in the most grotesque way imaginable. The leader himself pinned the boy down to the ground with his muddied shoes, continuing to laugh at the boys suffering with an inhumane amount of twisted glee.
When the bullies were finished, they kicked the boy around the ground as hard as they could. The boy, in an attempt to stave off the pain, covered his ribs with his arms. But they kicked him everywhere, including his face and genitalia. Satisfied at the pain they caused, the boys brought forth their shoes to his face. It was absolutely disgusting; there were even flies flying around the mud of their shoes.
"Oi!" The leader said, kicking the boy on the head. "No slackin' off! Get to it!"
Coughing his lingering pain away, the boy grudgingly licked the mud off his oppressors' shoes. The horrendous stench and the awful taste of the mud only added to the misery of this moment, but the boy pressed on.
'It's not gonna last forever. It's not gonna last forever. It's not gonna last forever. It's not gonna last forever.'
He repeated these thoughts over and over again while he licked off the remaining mud from the bullies' shoes. Really, the possibility of a better tomorrow was the only solace he had during these dark times. There were many times in his childhood where he just wanted to give up. To just end it all.
But he persevered. 'Whatever doesn't kill you can only make you stronger…' He wanted to believe. Unfortunately, life did not particularly work like that.
He hated his eyes. If he was born with his father's onyx eyes or his mother's cream eyes, then maybe things would have been fine. Why…why was he burdened with this unnatural condition?
Several minutes of this gruesome tribulation passed, and finally the shoes of all three of the bullies were bright and shiny (well, as bright and shiny as any spit shiners could possibly make them). The bullies were inspecting the work that he put into cleaning their shoes. Of course, it was not satisfactory. But, as they had little time to continue toying with the demonic boy, they decided that enough was enough…for now.
"Bakemono, this was a shitty job." The boy said in a disgruntled voice. He kicked the boy's shoulder, causing the boy to fall flat on his face. "…But this will have to do…for now. Better make sure I let mama know that the demon brat took a shit on my shoes or something, I'm sure she'll believe it. Hahahahaha!"
The bullies walked away from the quivering boy, laughing and praising each other for another job well done. This had surely been a pleasant morning for the three of them, and they could not wait until after school. If the monster knew any better, then he would not be running from the retribution they had planned for him later today.
The boy just sat still, contemplating on all the things that went wrong in his life up until this point.
Gods, if it wasn't made apparent before, it should be now.
He fucking hated this morning routine.
"…are various ways a mutation can occur within an organism. Oh?" The teacher noticed the boy walking in late for class. "Uchiha Ishoku-san, you are late for class. I hope you know the consequences of your actions. You will meet with the Grandmaster after school to discuss further penalization. Now, get to your seat."
Yes. Never mind the fact that the boy was walking into class with dirt-ridden, muddied clothing, dry blood staining his face, red sclera from a popped blood vessel, and a growing black eye from being kicked brutally. The most obvious fact his teacher paid attention to was his tardiness. Grumpily, he rushed to his seat at the back of the classroom, blocking out the sound of all of the children's laughter. He tucked his head between his arms and tried ever so desperately to fall asleep. It wasn't like his teacher actually cared. Besides, rest was pivotal to recover from trauma such as this.
"Mutations can occur from damage to DNA or to RNA sequences, faults during the process of replication, or from spontaneous insertion or deletion of certain segments of DNA by mobile genetic elements. Most mutations that occur within an organism are nonthreatening, or it may have happened in Junk DNA segments, DNA segments that are not vital towards maintaining life processes." The teacher lectured. The boy, whose name was Ishoku, was rather curious about today's lecture. He did not know what brought about the topic of genetic mutation for today's class (he probably would have if his bullies weren't such assholes today), but maybe it had something to do with his condition.
"Many of the mutations that befall an organism inhibit their ability to perform efficiently. For instance, the hereditary disease sickle cell anemia mutates the form of red blood cells within a human from rounded to 'sickle' shaped, hence the name. The sickle cell, due to its malformed shape, can potentially cause congested traffic within the blood stream, preventing blood cells from travelling to other organs in the body."
Hmm, maybe that's what Ishoku was suffering from. A malignant mutation that somehow hindered his ability to form and maintain meaningful human relations. No, that doesn't seem correct. A mutation that change his eye color shouldn't cause such a radical transformation of his peers' opinion on him.
"However, there are some mutations that occur in nature that proves to be beneficial to the organism in general. Mutations such as changing the beak shape in certain birds so that reaching for food in difficult locales prove sufficiently easier are examples of advantageous mutations. When advantageous mutations are passed down from parent to offspring in the span of several generations, the process of evolution takes place. Of course, evolution is a topic that is somewhat different from the topic we are discussing, so that will be saved for a later time."
Could…could his heterochromia be a benign mutation? If so, why haven't the effects shown itself yet? No, that did not seem like a plausible explanation for his misfortune, either. Maybe he's just naturally unlucky.
"Sensei! Does this mean that Uchiha-san's freaky eyes are one of these 'mutations' you speak of?"
Ah, the unspoken question. Ishoku was silently grateful to whoever asked that question. He certainly wasn't. He hated bring unnecessary attention to himself. It only led to pain, misery, or further misfortune.
"Uchiha-san's condition cannot possibly be compared in the same realm of existence as the rest of us humans." The teacher explained coldly. "An abomination such as he does not deserve to undergo the same biological processes as us normal people. Certainly, the closest organism he could relate to are fiends or monsters. In fact, that explanation could do his pitiful presence some justice."
The class roared into laughter, referring to Ishoku as "bakemono" or "demon." Ishoku dug his head further into his arms, trying to return to the slumber that he was denied due to the intrigue of the topic at hand. Why did he even bother? To everyone else, he was a thing. An it. According to everyone, he did not deserve to be classified in the same category as other humans. He was a plague, an atrocity, a vile curse brought forth to this village by unknown higher powers to rain calamities on their children and their crops.
His tolerance was wearing thin. He loved and respected his parents decision to remain in the village, if only to survive. But his sanity was slowly being drained. He did not know how much longer he could deal with the exclusion and the isolation before he snapped.
The rest of the day went as smooth as smooth could get in Ishoku's life. Children threw mud and rocks at him when he passed by. Children laughed at him, calling him insults after insults to belittle his existence. Teachers ignored him, or mocked him in a similar fashion as his biology teacher. He counted his luck that punishments like earlier this morning did not happen for the rest of the day, so that was a victory in its own right.
He saw the Grandmaster after school to accept his unjustly earned punishment. After the sunglasses incident, every time he was called to the Grandmaster, he received a brutal flogging. The Grandmaster was a sick man, dressing in tight leather for every whipping. With each instance of Ishoku's referral to the Grandmaster's office, the duration of the flogging increased by one minute. So he needed to deal with 37 minutes worth of stinging pain.
The children enjoyed giving false reports to his teachers about wrongdoings he did not commit. Some of the kids stayed after school to see their demented Grandmaster at work, bringing down the whip on Ishoku's back. Each whiplash stung more sharply than the last, yet not once did Ishoku cry out in agony. The humiliation, the pain, the isolation, the false accusations, the laughter, the ridicule, the sorrow, everything that Ishoku went through in this school he was already used to. It was just another horrible school day to him.
And it would all get better when he returned home.
His parents would quickly address all of the wounds he accumulated throughout the day, making sure to be tender as the applied medicine or emergency first-aid. Ishoku enjoyed the warmth he felt from his parents as they lovingly embraced their child, whispering optimistic praises into his ears, trying their hardest to make him forget the pain of today and look forward to the wonders of tomorrow.
His parents were the only people that could see how much the pain truly affected him. They were the only ones he allowed to see his tears, to hear him scream in frustration at yet another day of discrimination. They were the only ones to see how truly fragile Ishoku was. They saw his mask crumble into a thousand pieces the moment he walked in. And they would help him collect all of the shards so that they can recreate the mask. Prepare him for another day of anguish and grief. All in hope that things would get better.
Ishoku eagerly rushed home, excited to finally be out of that hellhole called "school." He was ecstatic that he managed to survive another day without breaking into the pressure or going insane from the exclusion. To him, that was another victory. An accomplishment he could be proud of. He ignored the stinging pain from the flogging or the blurry vision from the kick to his eye, moving faster and more upbeat with each step he took.
He may have hated the mornings, but he absolutely loved the afternoons.
"I'm home!" Ishoku gleefully announced, removing his shoes and placing them on the cabinet.
He waited a couple of seconds. No response. That's odd…
"I'm home!" Ishoku yelled again. Still no response. Unusual…his mom would typically reply with "Welcome home," or something along those lines.
"Otou-san? Okaa-san?" Ishoku called out to his parents. No answer. Ishoku grew more worried, increasing the frequency in which he called out to his parents. 'Maybe they are still working out on the fields?' He thought. No, he knew they would have completed their work by the time Ishoku returned home. Besides, he could smell the fragrance of dinner coming from the kitchen. 'They could be at the neighbors?' Ishoku thought again. No, that was unrealistic. His neighbors ostracized his family shortly after Ishoku's birth. There was no way that his parents could be with their neighbors. 'Business with the mayor?' Yeah, that seems like a plausible explanation—
He heard the crash of a vase on cold pavement. Alert to the sudden noise, Ishoku rushed to the living room, where he was positive the noise had come from.
"Okaa-san, Otou-san!" Ishoku hurried into the living room before freezing in place.
There was blood everywhere.
It seemed completely odd, as there were no signs of a struggle inside the living room. With the sole exception of the broken vase, the living room looked to have been virtually unchanged from when he left for school in the morning. None of the paintings were turned or torn down. The couch did not even shift slightly. The lamp and the chandelier were in place. Everything seemed to be fine.
Except for all of the blood that smeared the room in a dark coating of red.
In the center of the room laid his parents, tossed around like the corpse of a pig after the slaughterhouse. Their underside was drenched in blood from the puddle that was leaking out from their grievous wounds. Their expressions were…sick to say the least. Pale from the loss of blood, their screaming faces looked remarkably similar to ghosts from the stories Ishoku heard as a child.
Ishoku lost all of his strength, collapsing to the ground from his weakened knees. He was stunned silent, unsure of what to do at this moment. His parents laid dead before him, soaking in the blood of their decaying carcasses. Yet, Ishoku did not scream. He did not cry. He just sat there, kneeling with his hands on the ground, trembling from the fact that his parents were dead.
And, in the middle of it all, was the assailant. He did not even bother to flee from the scene of the crime. He sat atop the couch, with an apathetic expression on his face.
His dark, high-collared shirt and flak jacket gave him the appearance of a shinobi. Unlike the furniture surrounding him, he was not covered in blood. Not like the tantō he was playing with in his hand. The blade of the tantō was dripping blood atop his mother's corpse. For a moment, the man did not register Ishoku in his state of grieving, but after a while of having a bored look on his face, he finally spoke to the boy.
"Hello Ishoku-san." The man said, his red eyes spinning wildly. "I apologize for the state of disorder I have left your house in."
In that moment, the world before Ishoku became vastly more clearer.
Hey Y'all!
Happy One Year Anniversary Blackrazgriz!
I present to you my side-project, Heterochromia Iridum.
I will work on this story every Saturday. I'll release chapters when I have completed them and edited them suitably.
Of course, this chapter wasn't edited. I'll edit the chapter within the next couple of weeks and rerelease it at a later time.
But for now, enjoy this story of a male OC. I know, not my style right? Well, I got tired of writing female OCs so here's a welcome change.
Also, there will be relatively little Author's Notes. Yes, I will post updates on the story's progression on the top of the chapter, but no Author's Notes. I feel like I reveal a lot of vital material to the story within these notes.
I'll only post Author's Notes when news concerning the state of this story needs to be revealed.
So once again, enjoy the story, and I will see you later.
-Blackrazgriz 4/15/2014 12:11PM EST
