Warnings: Sociopathic!deaf!OC, language.

Enjoy.

You Are Now My Bitch

With a long and loud yawn, I stretched out my arms and legs, making myself look like a star as I flopped back onto my bed. I was exhausted. State testing was going to bite my ass. My friends said I'd ace it, I mean, I've mostly got grades in between Cs and As in school, but for tests…? It feels like we just need to memorize one thing, and it ends up asking you something completely different.

Like, for example: Remember the square root of one hundred forty-four. On the actual test, it asks us this: Calculate the suns mass.

'Specially for math.

God damn fucking aflame motherfucker. I cursed randomly. I need sleep…

I sat up, rubbing my eyes. I heard the bathroom fan turn on up stairs, but I paid no mind to it. My current foster mother, Ashleigh Monroe, usually gets up every time at two in the morning to go to the bathroom. I picked up my tablet, staring at the screen while I just let my mind wander to Crack County.

I snapped out of it when the screen went black a few moments later, and I stopped wandering. I glanced at the clock. Two thirty-seven AM, three hours past my usual self-created bedtime. I grumbled loudly, almost cursing out loud. I shoved all of my homework and books—and other school material—down onto the ground next to me. I could care less about it, in all honesty. I was too tired to give a shit, let alone a fuck.

But then again, I could care less about the state testing. It was just a measuring stick.

I sighed, turning off my lamp and sticking earbuds into my ears. I'm practically deaf at thirteen years old because I blast my music. I gained warnings from doctors, ear doctors, eye doctors, teachers, parents, friends, acquaintances, but again, I couldn't even bring myself to give a damn. And besides, I was a foster kid. I could barely stay in one house for more than a week without being complained about because of my ego, rudeness and sociopathic status. I had tendency to not listen at all whatsoever.

I picked a twenty-one pilots album, and tucked myself in. A few minutes later, I was asleep.

I opened my eyes after what felt like literally seconds later, only to meet a white wall. I blinked. "What."

I heard a muffled and distant sound that seemed to come out of nowhere

I jumped in surprise, whipping around and looking in the supposed direction of the sound. A middle-aged man with spiky black waist-length hair sat in a chair in front of piles and piles of papers, all on the verge of falling over. He wore lack gloves, a black sweatshirt-looking shirt and black pants. His eyes were black, too. And I swore I saw a desk, but even if I did, I found it to be very messing.

"What?"

"Your name," he said calmly, his dark eyes glancing up from a piece of paper towards me. I could read his lips, but I could just barely hear him.

I blinked, squinting. "No, seriously. I can't hear you. I'm deaf."

He sighed, raising his voice so then I could hear a bit better. "What is your name?"

I smiled and giggled. "Got'cha. I can read your lips. But why do you need my name?"

"'Cause you're dead," he stated coldly. "You got stabbed in the chest three times."

My eyes widened, a lump forming in my throat. I felt all humor leave me. "Seriously?"

He nodded. "Yes, seriously. You are in the afterlife right now. Right this moment, Ashleigh Monroe is finding your body."

I forced myself to calm down. So what? You're dead. That just means no more moving around. No more burdens, and I can do whatever I want. I smiled devilishly, my expression mismatching the tone of my voice. "Oh."

"Says here you're a sociopath due to living in solitude for the first ten years of your life," the man said stoically. He glanced up at me, his brow furrowed. "Kept captivated by your real mother. What a shame. Also says you killed her. Why is that?"

"Well if it says that much, then you should already know why," I retorted. "That bitch was no mother."

"Of course." He sighed, putting the paper down and staring at me. "Your name."

"Kurama Reid," I said.

"Japanese, are you?"

"No. My father just wanted to give me a Japanese name," I grumbled. "It doesn't even match the right gender…"

He chuckled. "Well it depends on what you're named after, I guess. Your father could've named you after the mountain, or something…" he mumbled.

I rolled my eyes. "So what now?"

The man paused, scanning over my paper with narrowed eyes. He appeared to be debating from what I could tell. Probably deciding where to send me.

"Judging from your past…" he started, "…and from a statement you said when you were nine…then I actually wouldn't put you in neither of the forty doors to the Levels of Heaven or Hell."

I frowned. "Statement?"

"'I want to be there because Heaven is going to be afraid I would take over and Hell would know I'd ruin their Torture Ecosystem'," he quoted. He snorted dryly, almost humorously. He glanced at me again with bored eyes. "Well…I don't see why not. Shinigami-chan wants me to have an assistant. So? What do you say, Kurama? Do you want to help judge the dead?"

I blinked. "Uh…yes?"

He smirked. "Hn. Welcome to the club, girly. I am Madara Uchiha. And you are now my bitch."