Chapter 2
The hallway was empty. Long, dark, cold and empty. Dirt and dust littered the floor and walls. The lights were dim and make it difficult for newcomers to see. Luckily, though, most of the residents never leave. In fact, you could say they once they come in they never leave. Maybe in a body bag. But they never leave freely.
Further down the hallway of the old lire, deeper and deeper, down old crumbling hallways, though the twists and turns, surrounded by darkness, was a door. The door lead to a small room. The walls were bare and gray; the floor was dirty and also bare. The only furniture in the room was an old bed. The sheets were soiled, dirty and torn from their long years of servitude. A small figure sat on this bed. Knees pulled up the chest, arms crossed on top and head bowed, drifting in and out of consciousness. A boy. His once white robe was dirty and torn, his long sliver hair wrapped around his small body, a sliver tail pulled in close to him and his sliver fox ears hung low. In human years the boy appeared no older then 6 years old but his real age was 621. For 621 years blood had pumped round his body. 621 years of abuse and torture. Demon's could survive injures that could kill humans in minutes and 621 years was barley anything in demon years. He had a long time to go till his body finally gave out. He couldn't wait.
The loud banging of foot steps brought the boy back to his senses. They echoed down the empty corridors, shook the old building to its core. Fear grabbed at the boy, squeezing him tighter and tighter. He couldn't breath, couldn't moved. The footsteps themselves were terrifying, demanding respect and power. They were getting louder. The boy tried desperately to catch his breath, willed his body to move. But he couldn't. He was frozen, frozen in icy fear. He knew those foot steps. It was a noise he heard to often. He knew what was coming, he knew the pain and torture he was about to face. It was the sound of a monster, the sound of his father.
As the door to the room was thrown open the boy snatched his eyes shut. He couldn't bear to bring himself to stare at the older demon. "Youko" as his name left his father lips, Youko flinched. The voice was calm and gentle, but he knew better. He wouldn't trust the tone of the voice, or the smiles, or the warm look in his father's eyes whenever he looked at the young demon. They were fake; every emotion his father portrayed was fake. His father had no emotion, his father had no soul.
"Youko? My boy, come now look at me." His voice was soft and caring. The young demon turned his head away and began to shake. "Look at me you filthy rat!" his father screamed as his patience ran out.
He grabbed Youko by the hair and dragged him across the floor. "If you would just be good." He said angrily "if you did as you were told." The young demon whimpered in pain. "Stop that noise. You are a demon. You are my son. You will not show emotion, ever. Do you understand?"
He chained Youko to the wall and reached for his whip. His son was weak, weak like his mother. He would teach him to be the demon he should be. A son worthy of having a father like him.
Lifting the whip high above his head, he quickly brought it down on his son's back.