That was...unexpected.

Of all the things for Eddward to do, saving my ass twice in one day was near the bottom of that list. Probably right below the sun falling, but you know. Stuff. It happened, though. Maybe it was all in my head, anyways. He did say he didn't want to see a book burned...and that thing about not wanting to go outside. Yeah, it's probably just that. I mean, why would he give a fuck about me? He's...ugh.

I mean, I wanna hate him. I do, but he did kinda just save my ass, and my book.

I remember when it all started, you know. The whole, him being a fucking asshole thing. We were all hanging out together at the little playground down the street. We were like 6 or 7, all of us. It was me, Nazz, Sarah, and Eddy; and Ed was kinda just "there." Jimmy was off at who knows where, and Johnny was grounded, so we didn't have to deal with him. Oh yeah, and the topic on everyone's mind was, of course, Eddward's attitude. It'd only just started, with snappy comments and bitter glares, and we were all taken aback a bit.

"I mean, all I said was he had something on the back of his shirt, and he gave me this, like...death glare. I mean, what's with that?" Nazz made a confused gesture with her hands, and a few of us nodded in agreement.

Sarah piped in, "I used to think he was nice, but now he's sooo mean...did the movers take away his niceness?"

"Bet he couldn't afford to keep it anymore-"

"Eddy!" Sarah quipped, giving him an angry pout. She liked him, we all knew, and she didn't like when he said rude things like that.

"It's true! I mean, his dad's at work all day, probably can barely afford to keep the house."

For a 7-year old, he was well-versed on anything and everything monetary. He even put his money into a bank! We couldn't believe it until we saw him pocket his own ice cream money with our own eyes, and put it in a piggy bank. Not a real bank, I know, but we were kids, we thought that was a bank.

"It's prob'ly-"

"Probably what, Kevin?" a cold voice cut in, and we all turned to a figure emerging from around the wooden fence.

"N-nothing," I stuttered out as he walked forward in practiced, elegant steps. Who knew a 7-year old could be that frightening?

"Nothing is ever nothing, Little Redhead. Perhaps you could see that if your tattered hat didn't obscure your vision so. Or, perhaps you would know more if you took the time to think before your spit those disgusting words out of your freckled face," his voice was glacial, and his eyes bit into me. I shrunk back. Nazz walked up.

"Hey, don't be mean to-"

"Hypocritical Goldilocks, how about you hop a truck and go see what the movers took, before you assume things you've no knowledge of? Silence yourself."

"Back off, nerd!" Eddy shouted, walking right up to Eddward and staring him straight in the eyes. Eddward returned the gaze impassively, blinking once.

"Speak to me like that again, mongrel, and I'll give you reason to do so. Listen to your own commands, you shameless money-grubber."

Without another word...Eddy back off. Eddy, the most stubborn of all of us, for some reason, stepped back. Maybe it was something in the way Eddward looked at him. Either way, Eddy's shoulders slumped, and he almost seemed...afraid.

We heard someone walking up from behind. Heavy footsteps; it was Ed. He walked near to Eddward, whose expression was frozen and eyes dark, and he just...looked at him.

"...Yes?" Eddward inquired, looking soullessly into the eyes of our protective friend.

"Go away please. They don't like you."

Eddward seemed to think for a moment, took a long, composing breath, and stepped back. He turned on a heel, and walked off.

Ever since then, we never speak around him unless we want a venomous snark in return. It's silly, something from so long ago still affecting us today, but...he's only gotten more frightening. And stronger. And angrier.

Who wouldn't be afraid of him?

Sometimes, I find myself thinking back to the beginning of all of this, this hatred of the children of the cul-de-sac where I've grown up. I'll think of a time when life was simpler, and much less practiced. And it was by no means pleasant in any way.

A Sunday, I remember, for Father was home. Mother had called me, having lost track of the date for...whatever reason ailed her at the time. When Father picked up, I froze in place at the bottom of the stairs. A quick, efficient conversation, and she was gone again. I'd imagine to cry. I wouldn't fault her for it. I knew she merely wanted to talk to me; neither of us ever desired to talk to Father nowadays.

"Son, a word," no request, just command. Take away the choice before I could comprehend its existence. I walked forward smoothly, with practiced grace, as he'd taught me. A respectable young man must present himself in a certain way, he always told me. And so I did.

I looked at him, and replied, "Yes, Father?" My voice lacked any emotion.

"Mother wishes you well. She has cut into my busy schedule, however, so you shall make your own dinner tonight. I need those precious minutes for my own work, as you should know."

"Yes, Father."

"Go, get some fresh air."

I did not repeat myself again. I simply walked to the door, let myself out, locked the door behind me...and slouched.

I loved Mother. I was young, and did not understand why Father had left her, only that he did it "out of his concern for her," as he was wont to remind me. I hadn't seen her since she left. Sometimes, I even had trouble remembering her voice. Those precious, rare Saturday calls were a Godsend, and...Father stole it away because of her one idle mistake. I was downtrodden.

I walked the sidewalk, looking up at the cirrus clouds painting the sky. I sighed. My heart ached. I yearned for someone to care about me like Mother did. I wished Father could, that perhaps I could make him proud, earn his respect. As I've grown older, I've learned that will never be possible. I don't particularly care why anymore, I merely loathed him for it. If he could do me the honor of rotting in a grave at this very moment, I'd besmirch his name and spit on his corpse.

But, alas...at that time, I was ignorant and childish, and so very desiring of affection. I could heard the children talking now, as I approached the playground, a few minutes into my walk around the neighborhood. I halted; I wasn't welcome here. Still...I could listen. I could pretend I was a part of their conversations. I hid, as I knew to do when Father was around, but none of the children quite had his eyes.

I heard their words.

What struck me was when they mentioned how the movers must have 'taken away my niceness.' A bit too close for comfort, but inaccurate still. I felt a sob boil in my chest, and bit it down, feeling it smolder as a burning heat inside me. I let it turn to hatred. Sadness overwhelmed, but hatred could be directed. I had control over anger, at least. I had so little else I could control in my life, but the burning spite was one of my few tools.

I heard an opening in the words, and spoke.

I learned how words bit from my Father. As much as I loathe him, I am far too alike him now for me to deny myself being of his blood. I speared the letters through them, each one chosen to dig into the skin of the receiver. Even Eddy, that loathsome cretin, couldn't stand up to me once I spoke the painful truth he hid to his face. What one hides from others is their greatest weakness. All we hide is all we are.

It was Ed who finally played a final note with me. His eyes were kind, but hurt. He rarely spoke, and yet, he spoke to me; but only to tell me to leave his friends alone. Because they didn't like me.

I left in a confident stride.

And once I rounded the corner, the walking stride turned into a desperate run, as a sob burst from my throat.

I was weaker then. Or, perhaps, stronger. Back then, I would hide amongst the trees in the wood, and observe the world around me. I would cry until my tears ran dry, my eyes burned and I ached inside. Then I would go home. Whereas now...now, I've a knife. Sharp, painful, and one of few things I've truly learned to fear. But it's one of my few friends, when the tears threaten to come.

When my eyeliner runs, I take it as a failure. Father hates when I cry.

He always tells me so.