Whoo! Happy Friday the 13th! Mwahahahaha!

...Yeah, this story exists for three reasons.

1. Vanitas practice (and black humor).

2. The fact that it is simply a special day on two accounts. One account is a secret and the other one . . . well . . . it's the 13th. Remember that number, it's pretty important.

3. My friend, xxIAmTheSkyxx, is having a clearance event for 10 of her stories in her Development/Possible Stories section of her profile. If you have the time, check them out because the summaries are very interesting and there may just be an intriguing premise to help you get out of writer's block and whatnot. That being said, the credit for this story idea goes to her. Thank you!

Well, without further ado, enjoy!

Disclaimer/Warning: Yeah, I don't own KH guys. Ahem, and this is mainly rated for violence and cussing (cause, you know, it's Vanitas). It does get a tad more dark when we get into character histories but that won't happen for a couple more chapters so you can relax for now.

1. The Encounter

There's only so many ways you can start a story like this. Normally, I'd say to hell with it and overload you with so many details your ears would bleed out. Yeah, that's right. I have a freakin' motor mouth that would send most people up the hills. Course, if I started spouting crap at school everyone would look at me as if I had the freakin' bubonic plague and shit would go down. But that's a story for another time. And, by hell's grace, I don't really have time. Huh . . . I practically walked myself into that one.

So, the fact that I'm even starting to talk at all shows just how screwed I am. Pfft, and honestly I don't really give a damn anymore, but . . . given the fact that my death is approaching I'm going to break a few personal boundaries. So yeah, if you can't handle a few digressing paragraphs then get the hell out. Seriously.

Ahem, now how to start this pathetic hearse? Oh yeah, my brother. Yeah . . . shit.

Okay, so this story is technically supposed to be about myself, really, since, like I said before, I don't have much time. But there's no way I can really start this thing without mentioning him so yeah, kudos to you bro. You're the cause of about 75% of my pain and misery. Great, ain't it?

No. I have to stop doing that. I can't keep blaming him for everything (even if he is as dumb as a rock). The stupid, foolhardy bastard. I mean, really, how could he miss it? How could he miss the fact that I was his killer? How could he not see the resentment, the hatred I poured out on a daily basis? Why didn't he realize his younger brother was jealous to the point where he threatened to kill himself twice? Why did he have to be so naïve, huh?

Oh, that's right, because I never said anything. You know what, judge me all you want, but I'm tired of having to spell out everything for everybody. Hell, if you can't catch up by this point something is wrong with your head. I have to scream to get anyone's attention around here! To hell with that, I'm done.

Wait . . . I'm not done. I have a stupid story to tell.

Dammit.

Okay, so it started like any other day. It was raining, my parent's were having their idiotic breakfast conversation (which was really just an argument in disguise with a ton of sugar coating, God), and like your average high school student I was just eager to get the heck out of there. School sucked but my house was the equivalent of a graveyard.

Okay, scratch that, it literally stood above a graveyard. There were people buried here and the surrounding area. I don't know why Dad chose to live so close to work, guess to be close to his dead friends or whatever. Yeah, it was stupid but it's where I live and perhaps the locale had a large part to deal with what happened later. But I'll get to that in a second, let's finish the stupid morning routine first.

So, I was skipping breakfast (I needed to get out of the crazy house fast, remember?) and leaving the front porch, swinging my messed up backpack that should have hit the hay a long time ago. Not much you can expect from hand me downs. I was mulling over how I would destroy the thing when I remembered that, surprise, it was the second anniversary of what's his name's death! Yeah, who would have thought!

The poorly disguised argument was starting to make sense and my body instantly shook. I pride myself in having a somewhat decent poker face. No one gets to see anything I go through. Period. So, if anything bugs me at all it usually shows up in the form of shaking and this awful reflex problem where I do a half jump that resembles more of a possessed hop.

I'm getting off topic again, aren't I? Dammit.

Where was I? Oh right, anniversary. Hell, so, as I said before, we live on a graveyard. So, which closest family member is buried in the backyard? Who? You guessed it, my brother (and if you didn't get that I question why you're even reading this drivel because you're probably not going to understand half of it with the way you're following. Leave, moron). This is where my conscience showed its ass and I knew that I would have to honor the traditions. It was still stupid, but it was the justified kind of stupidity. I hopped over the makeshift fence that barely reached my waist and stood over his grave, making my peace. And by peace I mean awkwardly staring back and forth before maneuvering my hands in random poses until I remembered what the universal hand sign for praying was.

Yeah, judge. Not like I can stop you.

So, I pretended to pray and care but I was mainly going through the motions. It was all about the guilt, really. I don't do funerals. It's a round of depression I don't need on my shoulders. Death is natural so my stance on it has been pretty light compared to most. But I couldn't just turn away from my brother's grave because I was the reason he was there. The least I could do was stand there like an idiot for five minutes.

Secrets weigh people down no matter what shape or form. His death had always been a part of the deteriorating process, the radioactive topic that chilled me in ways that nothing else could (and at this time I had seen a lot of shit. Just the drawbacks of an ex-gang member). The burden was on me to carry the family legacy, and the fact that Roxas (yes, ROXAS. I don't know why but every time I point him out as my brother people give me this dumb disbelieving stare that makes me want to kick them in the balls. So, if that look is on your face now you better leave) was the one in the ground instead of me . . . it would hit me at the strangest of times. Hell, it ruined my whole damn day. I'm not going to ramble on and on about classes because no one really cares. But, in the grand scale of important things, school always has been and will for future generations be either the savior or crap. For me it was crap, so anything involving school will be included sparingly.

So . . . after school was out my mind drifted into dangerous areas of the mental void. I was remembering too much, I was seeing too much, it was all too much. But I sort of had this mental wall-shield going on. I was confident that by the end of the day I could wash out all the bad vibes with a bath and a rant session online to ward the emo stink away.

But that day had been a weird day. Sure, it wasn't raining, but the air was heavy, my dumbass backpack was dragging me down, and to top it all off the mother of all headaches decided to screw with me. I knew this was going to be one of those things I would have to suck up for days before I could return to normalcy.

Yeah. Normalcy died the moment I stepped into the crazy house.

Roxas, my dead brother, was standing in the middle of the kitchen with this dull eyed look half between confusion and constipation. It was so uncharacteristic and so sudden that I nearly dropped my backpack right there. But I didn't. I simply ignored him and rubbed my ass before walking up the stairs.

I know. A random ghost in the kitchen and I hightail it and leave. Here's the thing, I wasn't thinking clearly. I had purposefully clung to my depression like a demented child who couldn't let go of their favorite blanket. I didn't actually see Roxas, my mind pinned it as an illusion and nothing more. I walked past him like it was nothing, and I am proud of that response.

I am not proud of the response I gave in the next few moments.

You see, he followed me. Now, this is usually when shit hits the fan and people think, "Shit, a dead guy is following me". Not me. I just dumped my stuff in my room, rummaged around for a cigarette, and glared at my backpack like it was the devil of all my problems. Roxas was standing in my doorway. I deftly avoided his eyes and lit the cigarette, taking a deep drag before pulling out my textbook and deciding right then and there that I was going to destroy everything in my backpack before I obliterated the useless mess of sewn fabric for the finale.

"Vanitas . . . ?" A cold, cold, cold desperate voice. A raised hand. The fire from my cigarette went out. There was no breeze.

And . . . this is when shit started happening. I blinked about ten times slower than your average snail, made this strange gurgling noise, then turned so that my whole body could face the doorway. Turns out that wasn't necessary because he was already standing right in front of me (did ghosts normally move that fast? I wouldn't know, I don't watch a lot of horror movies). He didn't blink, just tilted his head and breathed into my face. His breath smelled of ash, dirt, blood, and manure. "Vanitas?" he asked again. As if I didn't hear him, as if I wasn't freaking the hell out, as if this was perfectly casual.

I lasted for about ten seconds and then he touched my bottom lip with his forefinger. I shot up in one stiff motion and ran out of there faster than a guy stepping on hot coals. And, unfortunately, that wasn't the end of my reaction.

And, that's the beginning. You'll have to wait until the next chapter for the rest of his reaction.

Thanks for reading, criticism would be appreciated because I don't write Vanitas often. Also, this will be a short story (a little over ten chapters). Alright, until next time.

Justice T.