It's not like I had anything special growing up, no connections, no excess money, I didn't get anything I wanted and in truth I rarely left my house for vacations or shit like that. But I did have one thing.

One thing that was so rare it made me special.

My religion.

I'm a Jashinist and damn proud of it. We're murderers, it runs through our blood, that or something called Antisocial Disorder. My ancestors have all been cold blooded killers, it's like murdering one person before you're sixteen is a requirement. Like my Uncle! He was a great man! In fact there's even a documentary about him. Although, there was something about his personality or something like that.

Ever seen the movie Psycho?

That's him! The creepy one who dresses like his mother!

I'm beginning to think I need better role I idolize all the greats, Chucky, Freddy Kreuger, Jason, that guy from Saw whose name conveniently escapes me at the moment, I think it's Jigsaw but I'm not positive.

They're all fucking awesome!

And in a way I felt I could never do anything greater than them. In fact, I never accomplished anything at all. Already a year has past since my sixteenth birthday and I'm stuck in some shitty rehab. I'm betting you want to know the story.

In truth it started in eighth grade, my parents proudly teaching their son, not how to take care of himself, or work on a car, or explore my artistic abilities.

Nope they taught me how to kill.

As a Jashinist you had to kill one person when you were sixteen to be accepted into society, and not be caught. My Uncle went a bit overboard, but he was always a bit of a weirdo. It was a task I was excited for.

However I hadn't planned on attacking my own classmates.

For most of the years of my life I was ignored, just that quiet kid sitting in the corner. I got a few mocks for my silver hair, which is completely natural, I don't dye it, and my weird eyes. Most people have blue, or green, brown, some even have red! However I am stuck with these purple pink ones. Of course the girls always said how pretty they were, and guys questioned my masculinity with them.

They learned it's a very bad mistake.

Especially when I broke their fingers.

But that was when they were younger.

Now, after years of the pain teaching them to leave me alone wore off, they attacked me. The loneliness I'd gotten a bit used to was now gone.

They tormented me.

They wrote obscene things about me, spread rumors, made fun of me, wedgies, constant fights.

It made my parents proud to see me come home battered and bruised.

I could never tell them that I lost fights.

Oh and did I mention the swirlies? I think that's what they were called. One of them would catch me in the hall, and would force me into the bathroom, the others would be waiting inside, ready to attack like a heard of animals. They'd grab me, then kick open one of the stalls. One would force me to my knees, another would hold my hands behind my back, another slammed my head into the toilet bowl, and hold me there for a few seconds.

I felt like I was going to die, I began to inhale toilet water and I couldn't breathe.

Then they flushed, and for a few seconds I got a few breaths of air before the water filled up again.

They'd keep that up until I was so exhausted I would collapse on the floor and just pant.

I'm not weak, just outnumbered, by alot.

One day, they cornered me once more, and I was afraid. They started laughig, and began to hit me. I didn't even think when I snapped, letting out a growl and lunging at one, knocking him backwards. The cracking when his head hit the cement was terrifying, yet exhilarating.

"You little fucker!" and suddenly pain shot in through my left side.

One of the assholes had a knife.

As he withdrew to stab again I ran scurrying as fast as I could, each step another jolt of pain.

"Heathen assholes!" I screamed, before running what I hoped was out of sight.

I began panting in agony, stopping in an ally to take a breather, blood staining my shirt. My hand gently pressed on the wound, blood spattered a bit on the ground.

"Where the fuck did he go!" came an angry yell, and I took off, looking behind me, only to bump into someone.

"Shit." I muttered as I fell on my butt, standing back up. The boy I'd bumped into glared at me, with such weird eyes, he probably got made fun of too. I winced in pain, and the other boy's eyes opened in shock.

"Help me." I whispered as spots filled my vision, and I collapsed into the boys arms.

I woke up to a clean bed, and a bright white light. I was afraid, and began to tremble a bit.

"So you're up?" I blinked and my eyes focused. It looked like I was in a hospital. In my arm was an I.V. hooked to what I thought was a blood transfusion bag. I turned to the direction of the voice.

It was the boy from earlier.

I blinked and tried to sit up, but he put his arm on my shoulder.

"Stay down." he said as if a command. "You've lost quite a bit of blood."

"Yeah right asshole." I hissed, then sat up. My vision became filled with dozens of spots and I fell back on the pillow with a groan.

"Warned you."

"Go to hell." came my moan, and I began to tremble, the blood loss beginning to take it's toll, I was freezing.

I wasn't expecting the boy to slide into the bed, although he remained on top of the covers and put his arm around me. I snuggled closer to him, trying to get warmer.

"What's your name?"

"Hidan." I said snuggling into him.

"I'm Kakuzu."

"Kuzu." I purred, and I could swear he was glaring at me. I laughed, then fell asleep in his warm embrace.