Tramps Like Us, Were Born To Run.

Authors Note:

Howdy do people. It's been so long since I've actually written anything for you to critique. This is due to my laptop's untimely departure of a suspected cardiac arrest, (I'm looking at you Light,) almost a year and a half ago. So here I am with a brand spanking new PC… Okay well, not brand new technically, my budget won't stretch that far. But I'm back, none the less.

Disclaimer:

I do not own Death Note. I do, however, own a pair of rather spiffing L cushion covers…

Chapter: I

"Queer." A twelve year old hissed. His taunt was accompanied by a kick to the shin under the table in the mess hall.

"Girly boy." A second boy joined the mockery.

I ignored them and continued pushing the vegetables around on my plate in silence.

Something hit my cheek and slithered off my chin to bounce onto the table next to my hand. A piece of over-boiled carrot lay miserably in a puddle of moisture that permeated its soft form.

I felt kind of sorry for it. The orange of its flesh looked sickly pale, muted and unappetizing. No wonder it hand been used as a projectile.

A projectile flipped at me by a third child, smirking and mouthing similar insults as the previous two boys.

I'm sad to say that I am accustomed to this kind of treatment by now, having spent most of my early childhood subjected to schoolmates ignorant of my gender and simply mocking because I had wide blue eyes and blond hair that was either worn too long or too short, depending on their mood. Children can be so cruel…

As can adults.

My mother's boyfriend, for example. He kindly informed me on a regular basis, sometimes accompanied by a blow that would make my teeth rattle, that I was nothing but a queer bastard. While it was technically true that I was a bastard by definition of the Oxford Dictionary, child born on the wrong side of the sheets, I had never once in seven years expressed the interest in the unsavory and unsanitary passages of the male anatomy required to qualify as gay. That, and the fact that I was only a child of seven. But facts never matter much to the mindset of bullies. The real reason that I am targeted is because I'm soft.

I'm a coward. Confrontations and fighting scare me. From the very first time that my 'dad' beat me and I promptly urinated myself in fear I have been scared.

'Dad' was a tall and strongly built man, not particularly attractive due to years of solvent abuse, a classic addict. He's the reason I'm in this God forsaken Children's Home in the first place.

He knocked up my mom and managed to convince her that I was no longer a priority in her life, not that she took much persuasion. She wasn't particularly fond of me either. Something about me being a spitting image of my biological father, who panicked when she told him she was pregnant and ran out on her. Gee, thanks dad.

I awoke one morning and found myself alone. At first I simply believed that mom and Sir Slap-a-brat had gone grocery shopping and left me behind. Not like that was unusual. So I washed and dressed myself, managed to make a slice of toast without burning it on my third attempt, ate it and waited.

As morning approached afternoon with no sign of my parents return, tendrils of fear began to knot in my belly. What if they didn't come back? What would I do? Who would take care of me? Finally, as the evening closed in so did the realization that they weren't coming back and the knots of fear tightened their strangle hold on me. I was seven. Seven! And they had abandoned me.

Despite all the miseries that they had inflicted on me, I wanted them back. I wanted to be secure in the knowledge that until I was eighteen I had a home. Not a loving one, but still a home. But that had been ripped from my tenuous grasp now and I spent my first night alone sobbing. I didn't want to be alone. I didn't want to be orphaned. I wanted my mom, even if she did let her boyfriend beat me. I wanted to be taken care of.

I curled up on top of my bed at my usual bedtime, squeezed my eyes shut partly to prevent the onslaught of tears and partly because I hoped it was nothing but a bad dream. I only managed to sleep for a few hours before I was startled awake by thumping on the front door. Blinking away my exhaustion, I pushed myself up into a sitting position just as the door slammed open and footfalls thundered into the house. Footfalls that I didn't recognize. The panic came slowly, gradually numbing my mind and limbs. Someone had broken in. It was only when two police officers filled my bedroom door did I scramble up properly.

"Hello there, lad." One with a thick moustache said softly, drawing my focus from his younger colleague who was edging from my line of vision to circle behind me. "We had a report that you've been left here all alone. How old are you son?"

I ignored moustache man, keeping a wary eye on the younger officer who was creeping way too close for my liking. I slid from atop of my bed.

"It's alright son, we aren't going to hurt you."

Each step that 'Creepy" made, I countered. If he stepped to the left then so did I, maintaining a distance that I felt safe with at all times and keeping my bed as a barrier.

"Come on lad. Don't be silly now. You can't stay here all by yourself,"

'Creepy' vaulted my bed handmade a wild grab at me. I dropped to my knees and scrambled under the bed frame, crawling until I was out the other side. I darted at moustache man who barricaded the doorway, gauging his reflex to my movements. He immediately snatched out for my arm as I passed, narrowly avoiding getting myself caught. I managed to elude their attempts at cornering me for a few more minutes; then I misjudged a distance and felt a strong hand seize my elbow. I screamed. Screamed and wriggled and kicked, but it did no good. The officer had no intention of letting me go. I was caught. So I did the only thing that I was left with. I began to cry. "I want my mommy!"

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I picked up my plate and scraped the barely touched meal into the bin and left the mess hall, retreating to the reading room.

That was all about six months ago now. Six months and I still didn't fit in. Didn't want to so I didn't try, preferring to spend my time reading. Another aspect in my nature that the other children bullied me for. I was smart. Smarter than they were, smarter than a boy my age should be. But that wasn't enough for me, I wanted to further myself, wanted to be better. My schooling didn't offer the challenge so I would challenge myself. To grasp at that last fragile strand of hope I had for a somewhat normal future. The future that my circumstances hindered and that my gardian's thought were far beyond my capabilities. I would show them. I wouldn't be beaten.

Picking up a well worn novel, I settled in a corner of the room and propped the book against my drawn up knees. I had read this particular book several times; it was one of my favorites. Snuggling my back into the mound of cushions I began to read. No sooner than my eyes had scanned the first sentence did the book suddenly fly from my hands, scouring a long, deep and painful paper cut along the length of my forefinger.

"What'cha reading there, Bookworm?" A voice demanded from above me.

I didn't look up. There was no need, I knew the owner of the voice only too well. Thirteen year old Jamie Wiltes, one of the worst bullies in the orphanage was standing directly in front of me. He skimmed through the pages of the book then frowned. "There ain't no pictures in this Kheel. How the Hell do'ya read a book without pictures?"

I continued to ignore the boy looming over me, pretending to be so absorbed in inspecting my damaged finger that I was unaware of his existence. The next thing I knew, I was laying face down on the floor, my ribs hurting so badly that I was struggling to breathe.

He kicked me! The bastard kicked me.

Holding back the tears that tried to squeeze from the corners of my eyes, I struggled onto my hands and knees, and then a fist twisted into my hair. Jamie dragged me to kneel in front of him.

"Don't ignore me you little faggot!" He snarled, yanking my head back so violently that I feared he would snap my neck.

More tears sprang to my eyes, forcing the first wave to trickle down my cheeks but I refused to whimper. I refused to even acknowledge him… until he crashed his fist into my temple. The blow knocked me from his grip, though I left him a few golden strands wrapped around his fingers as a parting gift.

"Get up!" Jamie growled, kicking me in the side again. "Get up and fight back Nancy boy!"

My shoulders shuddered as I heaved, sucking in great mouthfuls of air to cool my burning lungs. I was getting sick of this. Getting beaten up on an almost daily basis. Bullying is a part of every child's life growing up, I knew this. But bullies are usually ignorant and stupid, picking the most sensitive abnormality of their victim's life and using that as the basis of their ammunition. Being violent over something that they don't understand or to deal with their own insecurities was their only consistency in the world.

But Jamie knew. Jamie was an orphan too. And what he did to me was torture. After a few more painfully long and violent minutes I was rescued by one of the social workers. And for once I was thankful for being small and skinny for my age as the woman was able to snatch me up in one arm and still grab Jamie's sleeve with the other, dragging him behind her as she carried me to the house. Once inside, the woman deposited Jamie in the hands of the head social worker before carrying me to the small sick room.

I peered over her shoulder, watching as Jamie was ushered into an office to receive his punishment.

Just you wait Jamie. One day you'll get yours. Just you wait.

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And that's chapter one done.

Oh my God I'm rusty; some nice reviews might help me limber up. Wink wink