Chapter 12 – Perchance to Nightmare

Death the Kid

It's dark, and I'm five years old again. There's a light above my head. It's like I'm standing in the spotlight.

It's a repeating dream that spawns from my fears. Or my fears spawn from it. Maybe both ways.

I remember this place – it's a school. Death City Central Elementary. It was the first – and last – day I attended a regular school in Death City.

Father thought it would be good for me to try and fit in. I always talked about wanting to be like the other kids. I wanted to be considered normal. I wanted friends.

But I'm not sure what normal is for me, even now. Being a Shinigami makes me abnormal, I suppose. It makes me stand out.

I'm in front of the class again, being introduced by the teacher. The teacher was a plain looking woman. Nothing visually important, even in this dream. But I remember what I looked like that day. Father had insisted I be dressed in a black suit coat and black shorts. I even had shined, black patent shoes. I matched perfectly, and I looked like I could be respected. If I was an adult, that is. My ideas of dress have never shifted from that, despite the ridicule that day.

Alas, small children don't care what you wear. Not if you look different physically. I still wonder if dressing in those clothes then made it even worse – exacerbated my problems that day. For I don't believe children focus on wealth or social standing unless it's in a negative light. That was the lesson I learned that day. Not that I comprehended that until much later. At five years old everything is either good or bad; not bad and worth learning about.

But I couldn't be an average child if I wanted to. That idea makes me hate who I am just a little bit. I like being me, but I don't like being different. Maybe that's one reason I enrolled at Shibusen – I could get away with being a tad different. But even there I am significantly different with my…compulsions. And now I have entire student body who knows who I am. But at least by now I've figured out how to make friends.

That's taken a lot of work, I must say.

Regardless, the dream shifts I'm in front of the class then. The first thing I remember the teacher saying was that I was Shinigami-sama's son. She even wrote it on the damn blackboard. The mummers started right away – "snotty," "stuck up," "rich kid." Some of them rolled their eyes or scowled at me. They were kids of Meisters and Weapons who had to devote their time to serving my father. But that wasn't the real problem, I believe. I looked different. I remember one blond-hair child in particular told his desk-neighbor that I looked like "a freak with weird hair."

That one hurt just a little. My hair is a sensitive issue for me, even now. Maybe that's why I remember that moment so clearly. Or maybe it's the other way around; I'm not really sure. Father has always he told me he likes my hair, no matter how much it bothers me. And I really do try hard to believe him.

They were even more bothered by my eyes. Normal people don't have gold eyes, I suppose. Sitting at my new desk – I was forced to sit in the front because the classroom was full – one of them leaned over and asked if I could see in the dark. What, I was some sort of cat now?

What an absurd question. But children are full of those.

Some of the memory is blurred. Maybe I'm blocking it out, but I remember being called to the front of the classroom to answer a problem on the board. Was it a math problem? I can't remember it clearly. But I do remember not knowing the answer. I heard whispers of "moron" and "idiot."

I looked strange and I was stupid. The entire day I was a target for ridicule.

Even back then I had the urge to arrange objects. That day I kept rearranging the items I had brought for class, on my desk. I couldn't help it. I wanted things to be perfect, orderly. Father says I've always had a touch of it – the urge to have perfection, evenness, and balance in space; it has grown worse over the years, as one may have guessed. One brunette girl to my right noticed my organizing at the time, and asked what the matter with me was. I told her nothing was wrong, I just wanted to arrange things – things weren't quite right, even after several tries. If I had had a ruler at the time, I probably would have measured to make sure things were spaced just right. Like I do now.

She called me weird, and went back to writing on a pad of paper with an oversized pencil.

Now I was weird, as well. I was weird for doing what I thought was natural. Years later I know its unusual behavior, but at that point I didn't even know why I did it. Now it hurts to know it's so odd. Though I do tend to feel a little dead inside about it; I care a little less what people think. Maybe I've been doing it for too long.

And I still do it. I can't help it! Part of me hates myself for it. Maybe all of me does. Maybe that explains the panic attacks. Maybe that explains why I obsess over things I can't control.

Even in my dreams I'm organizing, rearranging, obsessing. I hate it. I can't stop the urge. I only seem to have nightmares now as a result.

The dream shifts again and I'm outside on the playground. I don't want to play with the other kids on the equipment because I'll get my clothes dirty. I was five years old – why did I care? Why couldn't I just act like any other kid?

One of the kids came up to me and asked about my mother. I don't even remember why at this point. I told him I didn't have one. I had never known her. The boy told me she probably didn't want me because I was so weird. The comments and jeers were too much by that point. I broke down and started to cry in front of the other kids. I couldn't help it.

I went home that day and told the nursemaid all of the kids had made fun of me and that I had started to cry on the playground. I hated it; I didn't want to go back. Father pulled me from the school that day and hired a private tutor.

Maybe he should have left me there. I don't know what would have happened. Would I be different?

He just tells me now I'm "a handful." Even he has to remind me that I'm not terrible and that I shouldn't obsess about things. I spend so much time anxious; so when I'm not, it's a strange feeling. I know it should probably be the other way around.

I know I like Sai. I really do. But Liz is right – why would anyone like me when this is what I'm like on the inside? If I can't like myself, how can anyone else like me?

Or am I just obsessing again? It's a vicious circle. Round and round, I seem to go.

Noise filtered into my mind and the dream's visuals blurred. "Kid! Kid, wake up!"

Who's there? I can't see anyone…I'm still a little child who's complaining to his nursemaid.

"Kid!" It was a woman's voice.

The vision shifted, and I snapped awake. I was myself again. Sai had been shaking me awake.

"What happened?" I panted. I was still shaking; like I had never stopped from hours ago. I could feel the sweat under my hair, and it felt hard to breathe.

She was kneeling on the floor next to me, staring at me in concern. "You started yelling in your sleep. It's taken a good ten minutes to get you to come to."

I sat up and noticed it was pitch black outside. "No, earlier. What happened earlier? What did I do?"

She sighed. "You were shaking and upset. You collapsed. You must have passed right into sleep because it's been hours."

I remembered it was dark outside. "What time is it?"

Sai looked over her right shoulder at a digital clock on her student's desk. "Almost eleven-thirty."

I had been unconscious for hours, and it was immediately embarrassing. I rolled over and hid myself under the blankets. "I'm sorry." I muttered.

Everything was muffled under the blankets; I could hear a knocking then, like a knock on a wooden door.

"Come in." Sai stated.

I could hear Liz. "Did he come to?"

"Yeah."

"Then what's the matter with him now?" She sounded almost cross.

"I don't think he's feeling well, still. He probably needs to continue sleeping." Sai tried to play down my embarrassment, it seemed. She was hiding the fact that I was hiding.

Could she be someone who could actually deal with my issues? I debated.

"Hey Sai, guess what?" I could hear Patty's ever-upbeat voice.

Sai sounded tired. "What?"

"Kid's in love with you!" Patty announced.

Liz gasped. "That wasn't your secret to tell! We even talked about this very issue specifically!" She scolded.

"Sorry, sister…" Patty droned. She seemed disappointed in her self for letting the secret slip out.

There was silence in the room. Sai didn't appear to have a response.

I thought about the moment of silence as a terrible sign: maybe I'll just hide under the blankets on a permanent basis, thank you.