I was born in a little house in the middle of the forest. A house my father built for himself and my mother, so they wouldn't be found out. Sadly, the day came where demons overtook the house and killed my mother, well, so I hear. I don't really believe she's dead. Something inside of me tells me she's still alive. My father took me and ran, but what he found to assist him was much worse than death. I would've rather been eaten from the inside out by one of those grimy youkai.

He found a woman, who has no name to me, who became my step-mother. She had a son, Jein, who became my stepbrother. The first thing I remember of my step-mother is her looking me in the eyes, tears running down her face, bawling actually, telling me how revolting I was. How useless. Telling me no one would ever want me, and no one ever did want me, so I may as well have been dead.

Many times she held knives to my throat, but always passed out before she could do anything. Why she passed out I never understood, but I thanked whatever was making it happen every night. She was a youkai, just to fill you all in. I will eternally hate youkai, and it's mostly her fault. Those damn fingernails… claws… weapons. That is the part of youkai's that terrifies me most. I get a glimpse of the hand of a demon and I can only remember my mother's nails and how they felt against the soft flesh of my cheek. If you ever see a picture of me, you'll notice the two scars on my left cheek from the confrontation.

One night, things got a little out of control. She was meaner, harsher, colder, more upset, let down… she was out of her mind. Raising a knife high over me, she threatened to force it down into my chest; backed against a wall I had no protection. I closed my eyes and begged that the presence that made her fall would soon come, but it didn't. Nothing was happening and the blade came flying down toward me, but seconds before I expected the blow, my stepbrother, Jein, stabbed her.

When I opened my eyes all I saw was his body standing before me, and my stepmother lying lifeless on the floor. Through the eyes of a normal eight year old, this may have been enough to die from shock, but as you probably know, I was no everyday child. I had seen too many of the nights where she was passed out on the floor to even think of her as dead. But this time was different, there was blood on the floor and my brother was holding a dripping sword.

I had never seen my brother shed tears. Never. In fact, he was always the one who told me not to cry, that men didn't cry. I believed him for the greatest time. That night was different in that aspect as well though. I crawled around him slowly, toward her. His eyes were shut, but he was trembling. When he opened them I felt a sudden wave of guilt sweep over me. Bloodshot and damp, yet nearly bleeding from being so dried out. He never spoke a word to me that night.

The next morning, I woke up in his bed, I didn't know why or how I got there. He was next to me, so I shook him awake. He didn't want to get up and smacked me away. I lay on my side for the longest time before I started to think, 'why did he do that?' So many questions were flowing through my head. Why had he killed her? What did I matter? Why did he save me? And the blame was back. I am the reason that he killed his own mother.