I will never forget that day.

Blood…hatred...sorrow…anger…

…No, no matter how long I live; no amount of time will dull the images that have been burned so thoroughly into my memory. The day I saw my mother die.

I was born to a beautiful Japanese woman. She had deep blue eyes and long, shiny black hair that was always soft to touch. I can't remember her name, even though she raised me alone- my father had left us.

Now, before any of you get the wrong idea, let me assure you right here that my mother and father were very much in love with each other and I only ever heard kind words about him. They had not separated because they wanted to at all- on the contrary; they were forced to separate against their will.

Now, I did not have ordinary parents anymore than I had an ordinary childhood. For starters, my eyes as most know, are blood red- the eyes of a Shinigami…

…my fathers eyes…

My mother told me to be proud of them… that they were mothing to be ashamed of…
Most of you are thinking that at the moment that my father was a Shinigami, but you are wrong. When my father was born, he was given his eyes by a Shinigami that thought it would be fun to curse him. At the moment, my memory is less than perfect at the moment because I don't want to remember this at all.

When my parents met, my mother was not afraid of my father like most people who saw him were. They started chatting to each other, met each other on a regular basis and eventually fell in love.

Love is so strange. It can be used cruelly or be used to lie. But it can also be a good thing. It confuses me greatly.

Not long after, someone came and took my father away…

A couple of months later my mother found out she was pregnant with his baby…me…

She never married. She never dated another man. Her family scorned her and relatives constantly enquired about the identity of the father of her child. To escape this, he moved away from Japan, to a quiet, small town in England.

During the time we were in England, we had a neighbour who was prone to random fits and paranoia. I'm afraid that I can no longer remember his name either. Everytime I passed his house, he pointed to me and called me the Devil's child, devil boy.

I told my mother about this and she became frightened, but I don't know why- she never told me. Despite this, he took no action against us and life went on as usual, until my fifth birthday.

That day…the day that I will never forget…

I was playing in my room with my toys, as small children do. Then I heard pounding. The front door opened. I heard raised voices, then an earth-shattering, blood-curdling scream. I jumped up and ran to see what the matter was. The screams continued, rising in pitch and volume.

I found my mother and the neighbour in the kitchen. My mother was covered in blood, the neighbour stabbing her though, continuously with a knife.

"Take this you bitch!" he spat. "You demon whore! You slut!"

"Mummy, nooo!" I screamed. The man looked at me, a maniacal gleam in his eyes.

"Watch this, devil boy," he said, smiling wickedly. I was frozen in abject fear and the most primal terror.

I don't...wanna die…please, don't kill me! I don't wanna die! I thought.

"Watch as your whore of a mother dies. She'll go to Hell, where all of your stupid family belongs!"

He cackled. He was truly mad.

"You're next, devil boy."

"NO!" I shrieked. He came up to me with the blood-soaked butcher knife. He got me, once though, the right fore-arm. To this day, I have a deep scar there, a painless reminder of a past full of heartache.

I don't know how I did it. I'm not even sure what I did but, somehow I got the knife away from the man. I turned it around, cutting my own hands in the progress. Then I ran. I ran as fast as my little legs could carry me. I ran through streets and streets, past hundreds and thousands of people, but no one noticed me. Well, some of them might have, but none of them actually acknowledged me. They walked past me like I wasn't even alive. I was starting to regret running away. Maybe I should have let him kill me… I stopped moving and signed. Then I heard a voice,
"Hello there young man! Where are your parents?" The man had a kind face, but he looked rather old.
"They… they're dead Mr." I whispered, tears sliding down my cheeks.
"Why don't you come with me? I have an orphanage that welcomes children like you."
I considered that consequences of going. I had nowhere else to go and if I did go with him, with that kind face of his, he wouldn't have the heart to harm me in any way.
"Ok..."

"I guess its my turn now..."