A/N: Well, my first story on fan fiction net, I've had the idea for this story for a long time so I thought I give it a shot. I originally planned this to be a horror story but then I started writing and things turned out way different but then again that always happens with my stories.
Important: Yes, there is an OC in this story, no she won't be the main character and she won't fall in love with any of the originalcharacters, besides from this chapter and possibly the last no other chapter will be written from her point of view, she will merely get the ball rolling so to speak.
Disclaimer: I don't own Beyblade or any of it characters.
Enjoy
~ Prologue ~
From the moment his icy gaze locked with mine, I knew he hated me; I didn't need my mindreading abilities to conclude that.
His eyes told all.
My brother hated me because mother had chosen me, because if mother hadn't had left him, he wouldn't have run from home.
If he hadn't had left home, he would've never have set a foot in that hell pit that was the abbey.
My brother hated me because I had the life that he was meant to live.
I was surprised that it was so easy to contact him; the BBA had given me his files after only twenty minutes of pretending to be a college student making a report about the greatest Russian sportsmen in history.
The fools, had it been Balkov my brother could've been dead by now.
Mother once tried to contact him, three years ago to be precise, when the abbey closed down.
She never was the same ago after that one call, it had been short, hardly five minutes, but it changed her life forever, and mine too in a sense.
I had been twelve at the time, I should have been worrying about first bra's and periods and she should have been worrying whether I wasn't still too young for those heels I bought last week.
But I didn't worry about those things, and neither did she, see, ever since she was rejected so badly by her boy she had been a mess.
She had always collected things about him, from magazines and newspaper articles to merchandise and every single one of his matches and interviews were always neatly recorded.
His birthday was always celebrated and with Christmas, there was always a little present for him, even though he would never see it.
This was before that phone call, in my opinion still a bit overdone but it was livable, after that phone call she became obsessed.
At some point it became a daily occurrence that I had to force the bottle of whatever she was drinking out of her hand, all the while coaxing her away from The Room.
The Room had once been a guestroom, but after that call it had become a shrine, that place terrified me sometimes, every inch of the walls were covered with pictures of him, the once neatly stocked away magazines and newspapers littered the floor and placed before one life-sized poster were dozens of candles and his never to be opened Christmas presents.
That call changed everything, in five minutes he turned our mother into a wreck, turned her into a shell of what she had once been, her only goal in life to get as close as possible to her boy.
The worst thing of it all was that I could only watch, I couldn't do anything while she kept hoping no, not hoping , she had stopped hoping a long time ago and he had made it perfectly clear that he didn't want to know a bitch who left her own child, she kept longing for him to return.
Hence my genuine surprise when I saw him at the funeral.
He stood next to me, his hair down in a low ponytail, the spitting image of our father.
Except his eyes weren't clouded over by alcohol, they were sharp and alert.
Those eyes that formed the only visible link between himself, our mother and me
Those eyes burned with hatred
Hatred for our mother for leaving him
Hatred for me for being the lucky one
The rain was pounding on both of us
Plastering his flaming red locks to his pale face
But neither of us bothered opening our umbrellas
We just stood there, in complete silence
Just us and the priest
And the rain soaking us
The downpour suddenly increased
Soaking us to the bone
Drawing out the voice of the priest
But neither of us moved
Both remaining motionless
Faces of emotion devoid
Two porcelain dolls, standing in the rain
I got an email a couple of days later; he asked me what had happened, why the coffin had been closed in the mort
I couldn't tell him the truth; I couldn't tell him about the attack, with her last breath she had made me swear that I would keep her boy safe
He had always been her boy
His name was the last word she ever spoke
Keeping him safe meant keeping him oblivious to the horror movie that was my reality
So I lied
I told him about a slippery road, an agitated driver driving too fast, not paying attention, about an innocent by passer paying the price for his mistake with her life, her body horribly deformed
It was the story of a thousand others
But it wasn't the story of our mother
He stood there next to her grave, proud and tall, untouchable, undefeatable, the ice mask the world had grown accustomed to right in place
Balkov's perfect soldier
As I saw my only living relative walk away, I sincerely hoped for his safety's sake that it would be the last time I saw him
Because it might have been a wonder that he managed to survive Balkov Abby
It will be a miracle, if I reach my eighteenth birthday.
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I hope you enjoyed this and that it got you curious for future chapters.
~*~
Silent Pandemonium.