He woke up exceedingly tired the next morning. It felt like more than just a simple recital he poured every inch of his heart in the lyrical melody of the intense, dark and malice tune. It felt as if a part of him flowed with the song, leaving him breathless and absolutely wiped out. Without even realizing it he hadn't been reading the requested music notes that went along with the song, he'd completely memorized the keys and preformed them in an order he felt necessary to execute a stunning performance which would no doubt leave his audience, in other words his mother, breathless. He was confident, he knew he'd face her and she'd be more proud of him than ever. One part of him wished she'd pay more attention to him than Wes that day, only for one simple minute. Just long enough to make him feel just as important, his strain on the piano had put a damper on his self esteem, and his feelings towards his mother.
He was too young to understand it, but he felt as if she cared more about the piano itself. She'd lost all control when he insulted it, and hadn't hesitated on slapping him in the face, as if he'd insulted her own child. Then there were times he'd treat the piano with little care, performing poorly and making a mockery of the melody itself, which in turn would earn him another, long punishment. He sensed a pattern the better he played, the more satisfied his mother tends to be. The worse he played, the more vicious punishments he'd receive and above all, he learned to never again insult the piano. He hadn't questioned her after that, afraid of another physical attack. He began to wonder whether Wes had ever been treated that way.
A few more years passed with the same routine, filled with much more disappointment than the last. This time, Soul had been unable to perform the same malice tune he had so many years before. He hadn't been able to play it again since that first night, in fact he couldn't play any four minute melodies. The song he played was a complicated, masterpiece in which if he took a good long look at he'd never had suggested it to himself in the first place. In spite of his fear of failure he needed another tune, he just so happened to stumble onto that dark and sinister play, praying it would be something he'd for once prove good at.
He turned ten years old, and continued his average routine. He'd become bored beyond belief, his days seemed to be filled with never ending routine. It would get to points where he'd become so bored he prayed someone go missing, or perhaps the piano would break due to its never ending abuse. He even considered running away, to no avail of course in which he'd remained terrified of another slap, his mother never hesitated to deliver. A few times he'd lost his temper, losing all control and using harsh words to describe the piano. Once again she treated it as if he'd insulted her own baby, and slapped him straight across the face. At one point he insulted his own mother directly, receiving a less vicious attack. She simply sent him to his room for no dinner, and this lasted for three long nights.
This punishment proved no longer effective, and she was running out of things at which she could approach him. He showed no interest in the piano, he'd been unable to make friends since he'd yet to go to an actual school, and the only person he ever really talks to is his older brother Wes. He was untouchable in her eyes, which made him even more intimidating.
One night, when he'd grown weary from his seemingly torturous constant practicing, he refused to play. His mother begged and pleaded, then commanded, demanding he'd march straight downstairs and play the piano. To no avail he stayed planted in his room, wishing her away and praying the piano would break. Nothing happened, and she had officially run out of punishments. Sending him to his room would only be what he wanted and he was un-phased by receiving no food.
A sudden idea overwhelmed her, promising sudden movement downward toward the piano followed by a perfectly executed play. She knew it had to work, it was her last option.
"Soul Eater Evans, I am telling your father.", she said in a dark, furious tone.
He looked up at her. The only time he ever really saw his father was after work when he'd come home to greet his wife. He never really spoke directly to Soul, in fact it was hard to recall a time when he'd actually ever had a conversation with him. The majority of the time he saw his father was when he was downstairs at the piano, criticizing his play. His father didn't phase him, the only thing that scared him was the vicious punch he was unsure how willing his father was to deliver. Whatever the case, he was unwillingly to play the piano any longer. Just the thrill of rebelling for once in his life was enough freedom he felt necessary to carry out. Even this simple act of rebellion was enough to make him feel alive, it was a change. A change from the unchanging routine he lived every day of his life. It never changed, the very thought of anything exciting happening to him was merely a dream in his eyes. There was no chance they would give up though, and he knew it. They would keep trying until they persuaded him to play once more, and the punishment he received afterwards would be exceedingly harsh unless he somehow managed to play like a god, and even then he'd have to have high hopes they'd be in extremely great mood. In other words, there was no chance he'd make it out alive.
Suddenly, his father walked in. He had a furious look on his face, which brought the phrase to his mind, "If looks could kill.". If looks could kill, Soul would very well amount to a pile of ashes on the spot. The look in his eyes seemed to burn through his soul, maintaining a firm grip on his attention. For one of the first times in his life, he was truly afraid. He had the urge to run far away, in hopes of never seeing this harsh look again. The feeling in his legs had vanished, and he was terrified of what came next.
"Soul Eater Evans.", his father began, "Why can't you be more like Wes?".
The sentence was short, the lecture was longer, but that first sentence tore through the very depths of his soul. Out of everything he could have said, he'd only hoped that was the one thing, by some miracle, he'd forget to add. Being compared to Wes was an absolute insult to his very being, it made him ponder why he was put on earth. The simple everyday life style of the Evans household couldn't be what life was about. It was absolutely annoying. It irritated him on so many levels.
Irritation.
A feeling he began to understand more and more everyday.
"Do you understand what family you're in? You're an Evan, whether you like it or not and you always will be.", his father continued in a much harsher tone, though it didn't have near as much affect as when he started off.
"Evans men are strong, bold, cunning, handsome honest, everything you aren't. Also, they're profound at the musical arts. In all of my years I've never heard of an Evans man being so stubborn that they refused to play an instrument. It's unheard of, in fact it might just make history. Yes, Soul Eater Evans, exactly where you belong. The great hall of infamy. Now, your mother has been merciful compared to what I have in mind for you. Evans men don't hold back, remember that. I will make no hesitation of knocking you straight into your senses. Now, I suggest you march right downstairs if you know what's good for you, and your well being. In fact, just this once, I thought i'd have the entire family come down and watch you but now i'm afraid you're undeserving. Undeserving of having an audience, undeserving of the piano itself. Now,Soul Eater,", he said with a final glare, "March."
That was enough, it was enough rebellion to satisfy his need for change. It hadn't darkened the doorway, the words didn't phase him. He'd felt like he'd heard all of them before, or in some way or another he knew it was true. Either way this didn't scare him, and he proceeded to run downstairs. Whether or not the lecture phased him, he knew he'd be able to go on. However, the first line from his long speech rang through his ears. It seemed to last forever, the sentence repeating itself over and over. Wes, the perfect son. Wes, the musical prodigy. Wes, the Evans man. He'd been here before Soul Eater, and he intended to last much longer. Soul took a personal liking to Wes, but the fact he'd constantly live in his shadow stirred something in his stomach that had been so familiar, yet so aggravating.
He dreaded the walk down the steps which was no longer an issue for him, he dreaded looking down at the piano. Something about the music he was forced to play felt off, it felt as if he was translating another language, or as if he'd been repeating a speech that came from someone else's heart. None of it felt original, the only time he truly enjoyed the piano was the night he'd managed to play so beautifully, so perfectly and so accurately. He didn't even have to try to master the piece, he'd never seen it before and automatically presented it with much flare and audacity.
His father followed behind him, speeding up the boys slow steps by pushing his back forward with one hand. They made their way faster and faster down to the piano. Something began to swell up in Souls stomach. Something he'd yet to feel.
Irritating, yes, but he's felt this before and it went away quickly. Aggravation no, something more than that. It came from a part of him he'd yet known existed. It was the rebellious side in which he'd just discovered. He'd been unable to ignore it any further. He knew what it was.
Hate.
"I hate the piano.", he muttered low enough for his father to hear.
In return, he received a slap in the back of the head, courtesy of his own father. The pain only frustrated him further, the hatred for the evil instrument grew far more than he'd expected. For the moment, he felt his blood actually boil. He shrugged it off, ignoring the pain in his head and soon taking yet another seat at the piano bench.
"Play.", his father commanded.
No words were spoken after, he looked at the difficult music sheet he knew he'd mess up. Failure, defeat, desperation. He frantically looked around the room, then up at the chandelier hanging above them. No matter how much he prayed, the fancy lights mounted onto the ceiling remained in tact. They were unlikely to fall off, crushing the piano, any time soon. Another feeling began to overwhelm him, to the point he thought he could actually feel his blood boiling. He moved his arm, turning the page three sheets over. He had no idea what he was doing, but he looked down at the sheet, gazing upon the familiar piece.
Within less than a second, he began to play. He failed to look at the sheet and paid no attention to what was written on it. He kept it there for comfort, gathering the formalities of what he'd once played so many years before. In an amazing stroke of luck, the piano displayed an intense, dark melody. Another key, and another, and another. He played vehemently, without hesitation. At one point he'd forgotten where he was, ignoring any trace of his father. It was as if the anger dwelling within him had suddenly jumped out of his body and into his hands, controlling every move he now made. He was no longer in control, moving his fingers passionately, gracefully, not even noticing his fathers hung open mouth. His face was lit with awe. Even Wes peered his head into the room to see what had just been playing, but was soon escorted out by a servant.
The tempo sped, Soul matching every bit of it. His mind was blank, filled with no other thoughts but that of him, and the piano. Every single cruel moment represented into his four minute piece. The final stroke came soon, he knew he'd need a way to slow his fingers. There was no way, no stopping him now, it felt as if he could go on forever without even trying. He wasn't even tired, a new part of him took over, releasing itself into the music. Even Soul was surprised when he'd felt so free, for once, loving every bit of the piano and the music that came out of it.
He'd reached the end, and raised both of his hands in the air while the sound of the previous melody lingered. He slammed both hands down on the correct keys, causing a loud noise. He closed his eyes. A tension arose in which he'd been unfamiliar with all together. A loud noise followed the keys, in which the piano would definitely be unable to produce. This didn't sound like music, it was the sound of metal versus metal. Destruction, he opened his eyes, taking a deep breath.
The piano was in ruins.
He looked around to see his father dumbstruck with no words amounting from his mouth what-so-ever. He'd been defeated. Soul looked down at the piano in slight triumph, until he saw what had seemed to be so impossible.
The piano was broken, and the culprit was his left arm. As of today, he was a weapon.
"Son..", his father stated in a low voice.
No response.
"Soul Eater...", he coughed, "Never in my entire life.."
He waited for the oncoming lecture.
"Have I ever been so proud of you."
Soul nearly fell over.
"You're a weapon! You're not just a prodigy, but a weapon? How wonderful! The world couldn't ask for a father who's ever been as proud as I am!", his tone wasn't cruel, nor filled with disappointment, it was sincere. It might have been the first time, in a long time, if ever, he was proud of his youngest son.
"We'll begin your training first thing in the morning! Go get some rest now, go on!", he pushed his son back up the long steps and into his room once more. Some time when his anger had released its grip, his arm had turned back into that of a human. Soul only hoped, he'd be able to change it back again.
Another thought overwhelmed his mind. It sent a shock of happiness straight through his gut, up into the very depths of his soul. It gave him a reason to wake up the next morning. The piano had been completely demolished.
Life as a weapon was more complicated than he'd thought it would be, but it was everything he'd ever hoped for. It was a change. There was another, much more promising, idea confined to the thought of being a weapon in which he couldn't quite see yet. He knew something was there, but it was hidden. His mind remained clouded and spirited to the fact he'd been able to turn into a weapon at all.
The first thing he'd learned while training: It would be done in silence.
His father began to spend more and more time with him as he taught him how to trigger the weapon form. For now he'd only been able to comply with one arm, switching it back and fourth with ease. The other arm, however, was a tough one. It took roughly a week to master and even then he still preferred the left arm, as to the more difficult one, the right.
The boys eager father rambled on about so many things, the duties of a weapon, the school, the bond of a weapon and a Meister. The duties of a weapon had been hammered into his head many times, every day. No matter what, as a weapon, it was his duty to protect, and if necessary, die for his Meister.
The academy interested him the most. It was in a place far from here, known as Death City. The city sounded enchanting, as his father mesmerized him with tails of corrupted souls in which he'd have to defeat, and eat. The classes, the requirements, all of it seemed to catch his attention. The very thought of one day leaving this place and setting off on an unpredictable, uncharted life on his own stunned him. It pulled him into a trance, as he visualized his Meister His Meister would be amazingly talented. They would be strong, cunning, everything an "Evan" should be and more. Every night from then on he began to train more and more, until they'd reached the climax of the lesson.
Transforming into a fully formed weapon.
Another thought occurred he had no idea what he was. He'd heard stories of transforming shuriken, guns, even gloves. He'd hope he'd be something amazing, something strong. Something guaranteed to win a fight no matter what.
The process, was excrutiating. It often left him tired, and hungry. The hunger was odd, even after never ending practice on the piano he hadn't been so hungry, he'd even been able to go to bed with no dinner, and never complained.
After eight, long hours of practice, he'd managed to finally transform. It was certain now, he was a scythe.
"Father, I can't move.", Soul was terrified, the feeling in his body had now been removed.
He was unsure how he'd managed to turn back into a human, after those brief seconds as a fully formed, powerful weapon. His body ached, he was missing something that even food couldn't help. This was much deeper than hunger, but he didn't know what it was. He couldn't place the feeling, it was unlike anything else.
"Ready for a new lesson son?"
"No."
"Nonsense, today you're going to learn something far more important than anything else i've taught you."
His attention was captured.
"Today, you're going to eat a soul."