I've been playing a lot of Wolf Among Us (the ending to chapter 3 really put me off though so I wont start 4 yet), and for some reason I wanna see Bigby in like a really emotionally weak state. Like, see his childhood as a pup and stuff like that, and I might even write a story on it. Of course, I wanna do this one. The actual plot will be short so there won't be many more chapters based entirely on this. I might spastically update some other stuff during, but this is my main focus.
From a young age, you tended to have respect for people. Or, at least tried not to be rude; especially to people with firm beliefs, and held the most tender care around the idea(s) their faith largely rotated around. Your father was an exception. You never bothered to learn specifically what his 'religion' was, if he actually followed it, but he was an extremist in it - that tends to be the strereotypical image of said-religious people - and only made it look worse. Not that anyone ever saw. Sometimes when whatever was left of his 'humanity', or whatever recess in his soul would suddenly feel like it wasn't a good idea, he shut it up with the idea that you were a heretical murderer and needed to be punished accordingly. And that he saw fit to be the one to do it to said sinner; like the hypocrite he is. Around those times in particular he'd show up at a service or two. He'd 'pray' - whether or not he meant it, you didn't care anymore - that your soul would be saved, and you would come back to the light, whatever he thought that was, then turned around in the same instance to beat the living daylights out of you.
But you knew not everyone was like this, so when you were left to your own among the rambunctious group of younger children - where parents tended to leave their rowdy young ones so they wouldn't make a fuss in the while the head was speaking - you wouldn't do or say anything. No interactions. Around these times you'd be particularly angry, and the last thing you needed was to snap at an innocent toddler. Besides some other things. Many were far younger than you were, and your memory knew that you were, by age, no longer allowed down here. Not that it was really moderated. The supervisors never minded an extra older kid or two, and would allow it. A slight bend to an unimportant rule, where you would be right either way, as they elaborated. Many children had taken interest in playthings from toy bins left under folding tables meant for luncheons and little parties, while the other few took to games that didn't require, for example, a toy train. Games like tag, and manhunt.
So when a plastic ball bumped your leg, and a little boy, no more than three, came by to get it, with a bit of a waddle, a goofy grin, and outstretched arms came over to get it, you actually had to put your hand in your mouth and chomp down to not... commit something you might regret. Thankfully he quickly went away, and the feeling constantly generating in your being resumed being turned to blinding rage like it had been, festering and lashing out for something to connect with, like a wire. Somehow, though... his innocence... the childrens' innocence... you loved that. You loved that more than your anger was powerful. So you took it in stride. You'll probably go punch a tree later and come home with bloody knuckles. Truly, you were a little package of abounding passion. After all... rage and love are just passion, directed in different ways. It's like carbon; a building block. You'd be lying if you said you didn't think emotions were largely made of passion, if anything else.
A sigh was the most that escaped your multi-usage form. Isn't life grand?
Yes, I know, extremely short. Just a filler chapter. Don't be mad, please. I just wanted to get something out.