Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Red Blankets and Broken Glass ❯ Red Blankets and Broken Glass ( One-Shot )

Standard Disclamer: I do not own DB/Z/GT. If I did, this wouldn't be considered fanfiction, now would it?!

Second Disclaimer: This story is an entry for Mia Skywalker and Lady Lark's fanfiction contest, "The Human Challenge." If you liked this story, go to Mia Skywalker's Website or Lady Lark's Website and vote for me there. For voting information, dates, and/or just general contest information, read Mia Skywalker's explanation of the contest there. All the information is right there for you.

THE CONTEST IS OVER. THANK YOU TO ANYONE WHO VOTED.

A/N: This is a story about Kuririn's past. I often wondered what on Earth would make a little kid want to become a monk, and I thought of the explanation that he was trying to escape life. I decided the idea would be a perfect entry for The Human Challenge, so I wrote it and posted it . . . and here it is! Warning: if child abuse, murder, and domestic violence bother you, don't read. (The descriptions aren't extremely graphic, but it's the concept.)

Red Blankets and Broken Glass

High-pitched, jeering laughter sounded in the courtyard of the Orinji Elementary School, as a group of primary-grade students stood in a circle, pointing and laughing in mocking tones. In the centre of the tormentors was a small boy, barely two and a half feet tall, with a bushy mop of black hair and black eyes. A nametag was sewed to his school uniform, as was school policy. It read, Kuririn.

"C'mon, shorty," one of the boys who formed the circle shot at the huddled boy. A sneer touched his lips that should have been too malicious for so young a face. "Why don't you get up and fight like a man?"

"You're not a man," six-year-old Kuririn looked up, and his eyes were streaming tears, making clean paths in the mud streaking his face, but his jaw was set with determination. "You're eight years old. You're no more of a man than I am."

The other boy's face spasmed with anger, and he silenced his unwilling opponent with a sharp kick to the side. "You wimp, what kind of excuse is that?" he snorted, sounding like some kind of wild, predatory animal. "Ahh, whaddaya' you know? Go home and do your homework, you little nerd."

With that last gibe, the circle of taunting children broke up, laughing harshly to themselves at the image of poor Kuririn, who still sat crouched in the mud puddle, where the oldest bully had pushed him. Kuririn waited until everyone had departed before standing up, picking up his backpack and brushing the mud off it. Slinging the heavy bag over his shoulder, Kuririn sniffled miserably, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

This action only succeeded in getting mud in his eye, and Kuririn bit his lip as he tried not to cry again. Boys weren't supposed to cry, even if they were only six years old. It was something his father had drilled into him, day after day, after Kuririn's mother had left his father. Kuririn missed his mother -- missed sitting on her lap, missed her holding him . . . missed the way she smelled like lavender and lilac blossoms; how her hair was shiny and her hands were soft . . .

Thinking of his mother only made the present predicament seem worse, even though the routine of being harassed by bullies was a daily occurrence. Kuririn's lower lip trembled, and he chewed on it again in a nervous attempt to hold back the tears. Why don't you get up and fight like a man? The voice challenged him, again and again. Kuririn scowled ferociously as he stared at his body, which, though small, was still plagued by what his mother had affectionately called "baby fat." He couldn't fight -- the one time he had attempted to even block a punch, he had ended up with a black eye and dislocated jawbone.

He didn't know why they picked on him. He never did anything to them. Kuririn was a quiet little boy, who sat at the back of the class, staring at the teacher. He did his homework regularly, and always handed in his assignments on time. He didn't know why that rubbed his tormentors the wrong way, but for some inexplicable reason, it did.

"I'll learn to fight someday," Kuririn muttered to himself, trudging through the mud. He wasn't supposed to get his clothes dirty, but it hardly mattered now. He sloshed straight through a puddle, splashing his well-worn trousers with filthy water and soaking his thin-soled shoes, but he didn't care, or even notice. He tried to finish his vow, but the tears came again and his voice trembled. "I'll shuh-shuh-shuh . . ." Kuririn drew in his breath shakily, swiped away the tears in a determined gesture. "I'll show them!" he finished at last.

A group of boys rode by on their bicycles, cruelly aiming their wheels so that a tidal wave from a nearby mud puddle soaked the already-drenched Kuririn. Their hostile laughter floated back to him as they pedalled furiously away, but Kuririn merely wiped his face clear with his sleeve and kept on walking with an exhausted, dogged perseverance.

Finally, Kuririn reached his house, and his small face puckered up with sadness as he stood at the front gate, grasping the iron bars with his tiny hands. The house had been beautiful once, with nice, white paint and a clean sidewalk. The front lawn had been filled with gardens, flowers and vegetables and fruit trees . . . but all that had changed after his mother left. Now, the gardens had gone to seed and the grass had overrun everything. The estate was still passable -- it wasn't falling into disrepair; the porch didn't sag and the windows weren't broken -- but the white paint wasn't as brilliant as it used to be and the sidewalk had weeds growing up between the cracks.

Kuririn sighed heavily, shouldering his pack again and gripping the straps tightly, as though the action gave him courage. Maybe his father would still be at work . . .

The small boy held the door handle for a few seconds before finally pushing the screen door open, hearing it squeak portentously, and he called out timidly, "Hello? Father?" There was no answer. Sighing with relief, Kuririn set down his pack and dutifully wiped his feet on the mat before removing his shoes. It was a silly habit -- his father didn't care if he wiped his feet or not -- but the failure to do so had been one of his mother's pet peeves. Even though it had been a year since her disappearance, Kuririn still honoured her rules.

Carrying his homework up to his room, Kuririn called one more time, just to be sure. "Father? Sir?" when no one answered, he let out a tight smile of satisfaction and shut his door. It was odd for a six-year-old to call his father by such a formal title, but to Kuririn, it just felt strange to call him "Daddy." Daddies were people who took their sons to the park, and who played ball with them and who taught them to fight against stupid bullies. Daddies didn't drink alcohol, and Daddies certainly didn't hit Mommies . . .

Kuririn squeezed his eyes tightly shut, not allowing himself to think along those lines. It was bad enough having to deal with the meanies at school without remembering how his father had treated his mother. Kuririn wasn't supposed to know that, anyway. He was supposed to be sleeping, supposed to pretend he hadn't heard his father yelling, words slurring from the effects of whatever had been in the bottles from which he drank. Supposed to pretend he didn't hear the heavy slap, or his mother's cry of pain, or the thump as her body hit the floor. Supposed to believe that she really did run into a door during the night, and that was why her face was bruised.

The pencil held in Kuririn's fist snapped in two, and Kuririn's mouth tightened. There was something else he would have to buy -- have to steal from his father's supply of booze money, hidden in a shoe box in the back of his closet. Kuririn wasn't supposed to know about that, either. He sighed to himself and put the pencil on the top of his desk. Maybe he could sharpen it and have two little pencils. Two were better than one, right?

Kuririn opened his math book and stared at the problems for a long time. He didn't know how long he sat, eyes fixed on the paper, but not registering any of the numbers. It wasn't until a door slammed downstairs that Kuririn realized how long he'd been in a trance. Kuririn winced, picking up the sharpened end of his splintered pencil and pressing it to the paper. If his father found out he had been spacing out again . . .

Heavy footfalls sounded on the stairs, growing louder with each step. Kuririn swallowed hard and raced through his homework with an uncharacteristic speed, trying to get as many answers as to make it believable that he had been working since he got home. He could always go back and check their accuracy later.

The footsteps were in the hall now, muffled by the carpet, but getting closer all the same. Kuririn waited, still scribbling rapidly, and sure enough, he heard the doorknob turn and the door swing open. "Did you have a good day at school?" asked a gruff voice from behind him.

"Yes, sir," Kuririn replied in a small voice, not pausing in his work. The problems were easy anyway -- it wasn't hard. "I got an A on my math test."

"Good," his father said, and Kuririn risked a glance over his shoulder. His father sounded like he was sober at the moment, which meant that he had actually gone to work that day.

His father was wearing a black suit, since he worked at a patent office at the newly-founded but rapidly-growing Capsule Corporation. His face was shaven and his grey eyes were clear, and Kuririn breathed an inward sigh of relief. He was sober, then. "How much homework do you have?"

"Just math," Kuririn was still wary, even though his father seemed to be in a good mood. These days were rare, though he had learned to appreciate them when they occurred, but sometimes it was a false alarm. "It's not hard."

A heavy hand fell to rest on his head, and it took all Kuririn's self-restraint not to flinch and pull away, for he never knew whether the action would result in a caress or a blow. This time, however, the hand merely tousled his hair, though it was done almost uncomfortably, like the owner of the hand wasn't used to doing something so gentle.

"You're a smart kid, Kuririn," his father nodded, and Kuririn's mouth dropped open in spite of himself. His father rarely, if ever, complimented him, no matter how hard Kuririn tried to please him. Yet, despite his pleasure, Kuririn did not get up and give his father a hug. He would have been instantly shoved away. One had to be careful when dealing with this man.

Instead, Kuririn merely got to his feet and gave a respectful bow, but when he straightened he saw his father's blonde eyebrows furrow with disappointment -- and perhaps, anger, as well. "What?" he blurted out before he could stop himself.

"What happened to your clothes?" his father demanded, the momentary good humour disappearing as though it had never been. "They're all muddy! Do you know how hard I work to keep you looking presentable?"

"I'm sorry," Kuririn shrank back, but he came in contact with his desk chair and could go no further. "I - I got in a fight. Some mean boys pushed me into the mud. I didn't mean to get dirty."

"Did you fight back?"

"N-no, sir!" Kuririn's voice trembled, and he silently cursed himself for showing weakness. That would just get him in trouble. "If I did, I'd just get beaten up more. I don't know how to fight."

His father's lip twisted in a derisive sneer. "Some boy you are. My kid, Orinji's biggest loser. Sometimes I'm not even sure you're my son! If you weren't so much like your blasted mother, I'd swear you were adopted," he scowled blackly, and his face contorted so that it resembled a kind of nightmarish creature in his son's eyes. "Your mother never fought back, either. Must be where you got it from."

Kuririn's eyes snapped dangerously, and for a second he forgot his place. "No! Mommy never fought back because she loved you, not because she was a loser!"

The next second, he was flying backwards after being belted in the face by a large palm. Kuririn crashed into his bed, where he curled up in a corner and covered his face with his hands, attempting unsuccessfully to stanch the blood flowing from where his nose should have been.

"Don't talk back to me, boy," his father snarled, striding across the room to tower imperiously over the crumpled figure of his son. "If your mother was no match for me, certainly you aren't," Kuririn was shot a disdainful glare before the man spun on his heel and left the room. "Get out of those clothes before you come down to dinner," he tossed over his shoulder and slammed the door.

Kuririn closed his hands into fists and pressed them fiercely against his closed eyes, trying to push the tears back into the ducts. He had to be strong. No matter how much it hurt. He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs, rocking back and forth, humming quietly to himself, eyes still squeezed shut. The blood dribbled down his face onto his shirt and his body shook with the effort of controlling the tears, but Kuririn continued to rock and hum.

Rock and hum, rock and hum, rock and hum. Think about Mommy. Think of how she smelled. Think of her voice, as gentle as the morning sun . . . pretend it's Mommy humming, not him. Pretend he's sitting on her lap in the rocking chair, not in a heap on his bedroom floor. Pretend she's kissing away his tears, pretend he isn't crying at all . . . pretend he isn't bleeding all over his muddy shirt . . .

"BOY!" the voice thundered from downstairs, at the bottom of the steps. Uh-oh. "If I have to call you again, I'll belt you so hard your mother will feel it!"

Kuririn's eyes snapped open, and he scrambled to his feet. "I'm sorry, sir," he cried, straightening his collar and running a sleeve across his face. "I'm coming!"

How long had he been sitting there? The blood on his face was crumbling off, dry and crusty. It must have been a long time. Kuririn winced. He was in trouble now . . .

Kuririn jumped to his feet and tottered down the stairs, only a little unsteadily. On the way down, he cleaned the rest of the dried blood off his face, watching absently as the dark, rust-coloured powder flaked off and floated to the floor. "I'm sorry, sir," he apologized, walking slowly down the stairs. Despite his hurry, Kuririn didn't run -- thumping down the steps would only get his father even angrier. "I just wanted to finish my homework."

A lie . . . he wondered if his father could tell. Kuririn glanced around the corner at the table, which was set with a nondescript meal -- not sparse, but not sumptuous, either. His father sat at one end, his food untouched, and he held something clenched tightly in his left hand. Kuririn felt the blood drain away from his face as he identified the object, and he fought the urge to run back up the stairs and escape out his bedroom window.

A bottle, nearly empty, and beside it, on the table, were several discarded colleagues. So, Kuririn thought bleakly, it had started already . . . it was whiskey, too. Must've been a hard day at work. No beer tonight. Not taking his eyes from the bottle, Kuririn edged close to the table, where he gripped the corner to hide the fact that his hands were shaking.

"May I sit, Father?" he inquired, seeing as the man had not given him permission to do so.

His father's voice was low and hoarse, slurring slightly. One hand waved aimlessly in the air before pointing accusingly at Kuririn. "You didn't change your clothes."

Kuririn examined his mud and bloodstained clothing, and he sucked in his breath in an involuntary gasp of fear. "I'm sorry," he pleaded, "I didn't --"

"You disobeyed me," was the harsh interruption. "You did it on purpose."

"No, sir!"

"Don't 'no, sir' me, you ingrate!" his father roared, lurching to his feet, swaying for a few seconds as he fought to keep his balance. Kuririn shrank back as the man rounded the corner of the table, his face transformed into a mask of drunken rage. "I know you disobeyed me!"

Kuririn dodged the inevitable blow, flinging himself to the ground and quivering on the carpet for a few seconds, paralyzed with fright, before he clambered to his feet. "I didn't mean to disobey, sir," he insisted, backpedalling hurriedly in the direction of the stairs. If he could just get to his room, if he could lock the door -- it wouldn't keep his father out for long, but it would be enough time for Kuririn to open his window and slide down the drainpipe to the ground --

But the stairs that should have been the path to his sanctuary, betrayed him. Gauging the distance incorrectly, Kuririn reached the steps quicker than expected, and he stumbled on the unanticipated blockage in his path. The small boy tumbled forward, and before he could recover his balance, a large hand had gripped his collar and was hoisting him into the air.

"Try to run from me, eh, boy?" Kuririn's father snarled, his words running into one another. He glared. His breath, heavy with the smell of whiskey, blew over Kuririn like a foul wind. Kuririn tried not to gag, and he held his breath. He attempted to lift his hands to protect his face, but his father's arm was in the way.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Kuririn saw the arm draw back, but could do nothing to stop it. He watched as the hand began to fly forward, toward him, still holding the bottle. He could only stare, muscles tightening in anticipation of the blow, as the clenched fist came within inches of his face.

Then everything was an explosion of pain, blood, and glass, as the whiskey bottle slammed into the side of Kuririn's head, the glass shattering with the force of the impact. Kuririn screamed in agony, unable to help himself, though he knew the more he screamed, the more would come. The pain was unimaginable, so much so that Kuririn barely registered his father's fist opening, himself falling with a heavy thud to the floor, knocking his chin on the table on the way down. Didn't realize he was biting his tongue so hard that it was bleeding freely.

He could taste the blood in his mouth, coppery and sharp, but he didn't know where it was coming from. All he knew was that pain was slamming into him like an anvil had been dropped on his head, like in the cartoons he used to watch before they were too fake to be funny anymore. Blood was in his eyes -- when he managed to open them, which wasn't much, all he could see was a thick curtain of red, obscuring his vision. Then the blood went into his eyes, and that stung. Really bad.

Kuririn raised a hand to his face, but the side of his head was slippery and sticky at the same time, and somewhere, the small, rational part of Kuririn's mind realized that it was blood. His blood. More than the other times. Maybe he was dying . . .

Kuririn clutched his face, feeling the blood dripping between his fingers, and he stopped screaming. It hurt too much -- took too much energy to yell so loud. All he could do was whimper, and he curled up in a little ball on the ground, hardly feeling it when his body crunched the remaining pieces of glass, grinding them into his sides.

All of a sudden, he was flying -- Maybe I'm going up to heaven -- a hand holding him by the back of the neck, picking him up. He realized his father was flinging him up the stairs. "Get in your room and don't come out. I don't wanna' see your face until it's time for school tomorrow!"

The words sounded far away. Kuririn could hear a noise like a lot of wind, and it sounded like it was inside his ears. He barely noticed when he landed on one of the top steps, rolling down a few more, his body flailing like a rag doll. He didn't register anything until his body stopped bumping, and when he forced his gummy eyes open, the eyelids stuck together with blood, he saw he had fallen halfway down the stairs.

"Room!" his father bellowed, from fifty miles away, by the sound of it. That can't be right . . . "Now!"

His breath caught in his windpipe, and Kuririn had trouble drawing in oxygen. He had stopped crying, because his eyes were glued almost all the way shut and the tears couldn't come anymore. He was too tired to try to cry anyway. Kuririn dragged himself up the stairs, trembling like a dead leaf blown about in a hurricane, feeling as though he didn't have the strength to make it to his room.

"If you aren't in your room in thirty seconds, you're going to get it!"

Gotta' . . . gotta' make it . . . Kuririn told himself, gritting his teeth, finding his way up the steps by feel. He'll kill me if I don't . . . his arms faltered, not allowing him to crawl anymore, and Kuririn collapsed in a heap, only three stairs from the top. The hopelessness of the situation caught up with him, and he began to sob, body convulsing from the force of his crying, eyes burning like fire because the tears couldn't escape.

Can't . . . do it . . . he realized, the thoughts coming in disjointed fragments. Hurts . . . too bad . . . can't move . . . all . . . alone . . . Father doesn't . . . care . . .

"If I have to come up the stairs, boy . . ."

He couldn't. Kuririn couldn't move, couldn't crawl . . . he wrapped his arms around his knees and started rocking again, the only movement his tortured body would allow him. The humming started, faint like a soft spring breeze, barely audible. The repetitive motion of the rocking and humming sent a wave of calm through him, despite the pain that was hammering at him like an unrelenting carpenter working on his skull.

Kuririn . . .

The boy frowned. He smelled lavender . . . and lilacs . . . what? "Mommy? Are . . . you there?"

Kuririn . . . my boy . . . you have to get to your room. You'll be safe there. The voice was quiet and musical, and so familiar that the tears came to Kuririn's eyes again and he felt like a rock was sitting in his throat. My dear Kuririn-chan, you have to be safe! Do it for me . . . I'll take care of you, but you must get to your room!

Kuririn moaned, and he forced himself to place his hands on the step above, though everything in his body screamed at him in protest. Inch by inch, he raised himself on his arms, until he managed to drag his body up one stair.

Good boy, the voice encouraged him, and Kuririn felt as though a cool hand had rested itself on his forehead. He continued to sob.

"M-mommy . . ." he whimpered, "Father . . . h-he . . . he hit . . . with . . . w-with . . ."

I know, sweetheart. But you have to keep going. I'm here for you.

The cool hand seemed to brush his cheeks, and somehow it smoothed some of the pain away. Kuririn swallowed hard, crawling with immense difficulty up the stair. Each movement brought a new series of agony jamming into the side of his head, and Kuririn wondered how a person as small as he could have so much blood in him.

After what felt like hours, Kuririn stretched a hand forward and felt no step before him -- only the carpeted hallway floor. Bawling with relief, Kuririn dragged himself across the hall to his room, though all he wanted to do was lie down there and sleep.

No! The voice held a touch of urgency for the first time. Don't sleep! Don't let him do it to you, too.

Only a few more feet . . . the rug burned his knees, and once Kuririn slipped as his hand skidded on a patch of blood. At last, he bumped his head on the door frame, and with a final, herculean effort, Kuririn threw himself into his room. One foot twitched, moving to shut the door behind him.

Again he felt the hand, like a cooling stream, moving across his face, easing the pain. A soft humming sounded in Kuririn's ears, and he closed his eyes, feeling two arms holding him, rocking him back and forth. His sobs quieted down, though the pain did not. Blackness was waiting, nice, painless blackness, but Kuririn hesitated. Should he give in?

It's all right, Kuririn. It won't hurt you. You can sleep now.

A small sigh of relief escaped Kuririn's lips, and he sank down into the floor, relinquishing control of his consciousness. His last coherent thought before succumbing to the darkness was, Mommy's my guardian angel. She'll protect me. Afterwards, a conclusion formed in his mind, but was only half-voiced before Kuririn slipped into unconsciousness.

If Mommy was alive, she wouldn't be an angel . . .

******

Kuririn lay on the carpet like that, crumpled and broken, for three days. The entire time he tossed and turned, thrashing violently, his body in the grip of a vicious fever, sweat soaking his clothing and streaming down his face. Nightmares of drunken, abusive fathers and weeping, imploring mothers plagued him, not allowing his tormented mind even a moment of respite.

The man called "Father" never even checked on him once.

By some miracle, or perhaps a kind of divine intervention, the fever broke on its own, and Kuririn's body began to heal. The gash on the side of his face scabbed over, and his blood started the process of renewing itself. After three days of intense agony, Kuririn opened his eyes and was able to keep them open without feeling like someone had run a car over his head.

"Wh..what happened?" he wondered aloud, and he winced as his throat rasped with a painful dryness. A sudden thirst tore through him, and Kuririn staggered to his feet and stumbled into the adjoining washroom. He turned the tap on to full strength and bent over the sink, holding his open mouth under the pouring faucet. The liquid flowed down his throat, easing the pain, and filling his empty stomach.

The water was refreshingly cool, and Kuririn held his head beneath the tap for a few minutes, unsure why he felt so clean all of a sudden. It wasn't until he noticed that the water dripping from his face was tainted a dark red that everything came back to him.

Kuririn began to shudder as the memories of the past three days came slamming down on him, and he wrenched the "hot" faucet. The cold water was giving him a chill. He let the warm liquid cascade down on him, washing away the mortar of dried blood and sweat, as well as the fresh onslaught of tears that assaulted him as the beating was relived in every painful detail.

Still whimpering, Kuririn peeled off his uniform, knowing it was only fit for the garbage now. There was no washing machine in the world that could cleanse the stains on it. Nothing that could remove them from his broken soul, either. Clad only in his boxers, Kuririn shivered uncontrollably as he examined himself. His arms were bruised, as was his neck, and shards of broken glass protruded from his sides. Funny how he hadn't noticed them earlier.

With the air of someone who had done this before, Kuririn braced himself and grasped the pieces of glass with his wet fingers, gently removing them from his body. He grimaced, but it was more out of reflex than pain. Those little lacerations were nothing compared to what else had been done to him.

That finished, the six-year-old bunched his ruined clothes into a ball between his bloodstained fists, ambling cautiously through the hall to the garbage. As he made his way down the stairs, Kuririn's stomach began to churn -- almost every step was stained with a dark crimson blotch, and the rug in the path to his door was almost completely streaked red. A few of the spots were shaped as tiny hand prints. Kuririn closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see. It was too much like the day before his mother left. Or did she leave? He didn't know anymore . . .

"You witch! You can't talk to me like that!"

Kuririn, huddled behind his bedroom door with his hands over his ears, heard the sound of a blow, and he winced in sympathy. His expression soon morphed into one of horror, for the punch sounded wet, and he knew, somehow, that there was lots of blood involved. Regular punches, with fists, didn't make sounds like that. There wasn't that "crack" sound, like bones breaking, or the kind of squishing noise that made Kuririn think of blood. Punches with fists didn't make noises like broken glass.

When Daddy hit with fists, Mommy would cry out. This time, she didn't make a sound.

Kuririn's next memories were disjointed and scrambled. He remembered certain fragments that he only now thought of piecing together.

-- a man's voice, slurred but hysterical, shocked sober. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Talk to me!" --

-- Kuririn crying, wondering what was going on. He'd never heard his father cry before --

-- stumbling into the hall, seeing the carpet stained red --

-- thinking, Is it blood? --

-- his father, running, holding something in his arms, wrapped in a red blanket --

-- Do we have any red blankets? --

-- "Get back in your room!" a heavy foot, kicking him in the stomach --

-- falling backwards, the door slamming after him, wondering where Mommy was --

The next morning, Mommy was gone. Daddy was sober, said Mommy had left. There were new carpets in the hallway and in Daddy's bedroom, but the walls were splashed with something. It was bright red. New, white paint was on the walls when Kuririn got back from school that day.

The humming and spacing out after that. So did the beatings. Kuririn stopped calling him Daddy.

Kuririn opened his eyes, but that didn't stop the visions. He trembled as he forced himself to walk to the garbage can in the garage, because everywhere he looked, he seemed to see blood. Bloody footprints following him, bloody stains on the walls and the floor -- the whole yard was tainted red . . . even the sky appeared to be streaked with blood, crimson smearing across the eastern sky, surrounding a scarlet sun.

Sun. East. Sunrise. It wasn't blood . . . it was the dawn. Kuririn gasped with relief, and began hiccupping uncontrollably from the aftermath of his hysterical sobbing.

School, he thought, his head snapping up with realization. I've got to go to school!

The next few hours were a flurry of activity, as Kuririn ran to find his spare school uniform, which had to be washed and ironed. He drew a warm bath, which took longer than normal because Kuririn had to wash the clumps of dried blood that had matted his hair. A hurried breakfast was consumed and a lunch was prepared and packed, and the last of the homework problems hastily finished.

Through it all, Kuririn didn't see his father once. Heavy snores were issuing from the bedroom, and the dining room table was littered with empty bottles and jugs -- beer, whiskey, even a bottle or two of vodka. Kuririn's face scrunched with distaste, but he ignored them for now. He'd clean them up after school.

When it was time to leave, Kuririn heaved his mud-covered satchel onto his back, wincing when he realized he'd forgotten to wash it. It was too late now, though.

He was later than usual; normally, Kuririn arrived before the hordes of teasing children, where he would sit, alone, in the classroom and talk to the teachers. He got along well with his administrators, since most of them felt pity for the silent, reserved young child who turned in his homework early and rarely missed a day of class.

Today, the playground was filled with the throngs of various primary-grade students, running and playing. The mud had dried now, Kuririn noticed with relief. At least they couldn't push him into any puddles. He skirted around the edge of the yard, avoiding eye contact with anyone, or even raising his eyes from the ground. He didn't want any trouble -- his head pounded, his side ached, and he didn't think he could take being beaten up again.

"O, hey, shorty!"

Kuririn stopped dead in his tracks and turned around slowly, feeling a sense of foreboding. It was that tall kid again -- Kuririn didn't know his name, and he didn't care, either. He was two grades above Kuririn, and took great pleasure in tormenting his younger colleague.

"What?" Kuririn scowled, holding tightly to the straps of his backpack. He knew what was coming.

"That's a pretty heavy bag you've got there," the boy sneered, and he snatched the satchel, holding it high above his head. By now, Kuririn had been picked on enough to know not to jump and try to reach it. "Lemme' see if I can get rid of some of that load for you," lazily unzipping the front flap, the boy dumped all Kuririn's books into the dirt.

"Give it back," Kuririn scowled, but didn't attempt to grab his belongings. "What is your problem? I didn't do anything to you."

"You're short," the bully snickered, "And you're a wimp. And you're fat. What else do you need?"

"Well, you're mean, and you're stupid, and you're ugly," Kuririn retorted without thinking, "Is that any better?"

The snappish remark apparently hit a nerve, for his adversary lashed out a fist, catching Kuririn in the face. It was laughable compared to what his father could do, but as misfortune would have it, the boy's hand struck against the still-painful gash on Kuririn's head. The blow, weak as it was, caused Kuririn to cry out in pain and collapse to the ground, clutching his face.

The boy chuckled nastily, grinning at his friends, as Kuririn slowly pushed himself to a sitting position, grimacing. "Short, wimpy, and fat," the kid repeated, "And dirty. Man!" he indicated Kuririn's mud-splattered knapsack, and now-dusty uniform. "Doesn't your mom ever wash your clothes? What's the matter with her, anyway? Is she stupid, or what?"

The derisive barb found its mark, and sank deep. All thoughts of self-defense, staying out of trouble, and his previous injuries were forgotten as Kuririn's mind was overcome with hatred and rage. Rationality was buried as flashbacks of his mother came bursting at him.

-- "You're a good boy, Kuririn-chan. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise." --

-- his mother's face, smiling, her black eyes shining with love --

-- her face again, this time with a gigantic bruise discolouring the left side --

-- "It's all right, Kuririn-chan. I just ran into a door." --

-- holding Kuririn's hand, her eyes sad, mouth turned downwards --

-- "Your father isn't a bad man, Kuririn. He loves us. I know it, even if he doesn't." --

-- pressing a handful of bills into Kuririn's hand, whispering, "Buy yourself a treat after school . . . Our secret." --

-- his father, with the red blanket; I know we don't have any red blankets --

Something inside him snapped, and Kuririn balled his hands into fists, bringing them up to his face. "You don't know anything about my Mommy!" he screamed, startling the other boy and causing him to jump.

The next thing Kuririn knew, his antagonist was sitting in the grass, both hands over his nose, as bright, red blood poured out between his fingers. "He broke his nose!" one of the other kids remarked, staring at Kuririn with deep incredulity and not a little awe. "C'mon, we'd better get him inside!"

Within seconds, Kuririn was alone. He stood, knees shaking, one fist extended in front of him. The knuckles were stained red, though he didn't know why. What had just happened?

"Those kids were really mean," came a lilting voice from behind him.

Kuririn whirled, fists still raised, but lowered them when he saw who it was. It was a classmate of his, a girl, with soft, black hair and dark eyes. She kind of reminded him of his Mommy . . . "Yeah, they were," he concurred warily, still unsure whether or not to trust her.

The girl gave him a small smile, and she bent to pick up Kuririn's papers, which were strewn across the grassy yard. "Don't listen to 'em. They're just jerks. Here," she held out the homework to him.

Kuririn's eyes widened to the point where they nearly burst from their sockets, and he took the proffered textbooks and notebooks. A wide, grateful grin spread across his face, and he felt like he could cry from relief. "Thank you," he told her earnestly. Maybe today wasn't such a bad day after all. "You're the only person who's been nice to me all day."

A light flashed in the girl's eyes, and the kind smile transformed into a smirk. "I wouldn't count on that."

"Huh?"

In a flash, the girl stuck out a hand and knocked Kuririn's books out of his arms, then spun on her heel and ran away, giggling. "Gotcha', sucker!" she tossed over her shoulder, and hurried to join a group of laughing friends, where she was congratulated like she had just won the Tenkaichi Budoukai.

Kuririn could only stare as the wind blew over his carefully-organized homework, ripping pages from the notebooks and tossing them about lazily. He watched the errant pieces of paper floating in the wind, carried off across the playground, and suddenly it was too much. Everything that had happened crashed down on him, and Kuririn felt like any hopes for happiness he may have held had been tossed to the wind, just like the papers that were now too far to see.

He sniffed, drew his sleeve across his nose and eyes, but to no avail -- the tears came anyway. "Crybaby," one of the girls sniggered, as Kuririn stood in the ankle-high grass with tears rolling down his cheeks, a trickle of blood crawling down the side of his head from the reopened wound.

Too much . . . it was all just too, too much . . . I can't do it anymore, Mommy, Kuririn thought, the air catching in his throat and causing him to pant and hiccup uncontrollably. They're just too mean!

And then, he was running. His short legs were pounding against the ground, arms pumping, breath wheezing in his chest as Kuririn ran faster than he ever had before. He didn't care where he was going. He didn't care who saw him,, or where he was supposed to be. All he knew was that he was getting away. Getting away from the kids at school. Getting away from his father. Getting away from the memory of his mother, and the blood on the floor. Getting away from everything.

At last, Kuririn couldn't run anymore. The desire was still there, but his body could only handle so much, and his lungs were screaming for oxygen. He glanced around, realizing he was in surroundings he didn't recognize. All around him were trees, tall and lush, and behind them was a large building. A sign read, "Temple Orinji."

He stopped his hectic dash, leaning against a tree, chest heaving with exertion. He was still crying, making a pitiful gasping noise as he fought for air and for control of his emotions. He felt like the world was spinning beneath him, and he had to grab onto the tree for support.

Kuririn's fingers dug into the rough tree bark, and the sensation was the only thing that kept him linked to reality. He pressed his hands so hard into the tree that the bark scratched his palms, but it kept him focussed. Kuririn rested his forehead against the trunk and closed his eyes, trying to squeeze his eyelids tightly enough that he couldn't cry anymore. He didn't want to be a baby.

Voices floated toward him, from the other side of the grove. Kuririn's eyes snapped open in a panic, and he glanced around wildly, like a wild animal caught in the sights of a hunter's rifle. He couldn't let them catch him! He was supposed to be in school, and he had broken a boy's nose! He would get in so much trouble . . .

Decision seized him then, and Kuririn jumped up and caught hold of a low-hanging branch. Grunting with the effort, he swung himself up onto the limb, then climbed higher and higher, until he was as far up as he could go where branches would still support him. The voices passed, and no one noticed the small, shivering boy hiding in the limbs of the chestnut tree.

Even after they had gone, Kuririn didn't come down. There was something oddly comforting about sitting in a tree like that, high up above the world, where no one could get him. The bullies couldn't reach him, his father wouldn't find him . . . and in some strange way, the leaves and branches surrounding him reminded Kuririn of being in his mother's arms. The wind rustled gently through the foliage, no longer laughing at him and scattering his homework, but caressing his face and making him feel almost at peace.

Kuririn stopped shaking, and he leaned back against the trunk, gazing out at the leaves, watching the clouds float by through the canopy. It really was beautiful . . . it was almost like there were no problems anywhere in the world. He could feel his mind slipping away, to wherever it went when he got lost in his thoughts . . .

******

An owl hooted, rustling the leaves above Kuririn's head. The boy's head jerked up, and his eyes widened when he regarded the sky. It was pure black, speckled with glimmering stars. "Oh no!" he cried, scrambling down from the tree, jumping to the ground. He didn't land well, and the impact jarred his knees, but Kuririn ignored it. "Father's going to be really mad . . ."

Other children might have said that their fathers were going to kill them, but not Kuririn. It was too frightening a reality to joke about.

The whole way home, Kuririn could feel fear coursing through his body with every beat of his heart. He'd skipped school, for the first time in his life -- not to mention he had gotten into a fight, and had stayed away from home until after dark. The temptation not to go home at all was foremost in Kuririn's mind, but he knew it was not really a possibility. He had nowhere to go. A six-year-old boy could not get along in this harsh world on his own. Not without family, not without friends.

It was strange, but the closer Kuririn got to his house, the heavier the air seemed. It was almost like there was something that was weighing down the air itself, pushing down on Kuririn's shoulders, making him walk slower and slower, until he was barely moving at all. The breeze, which at night was usually cool and comforting, like his mother's hands, seemed tonight to be hot and oppressive. It was sticky somehow, which made no sense, since it was autumn and by all rights, the weather should be cool.

Kuririn rubbed his hands up and down his arms, trying to get rid of the awful, clammy sensation. It made him feel like he was dirty somehow, like there was something bad sticking to him that he couldn't get rid of. It wasn't nice. In fact, it was almost disgusting -- a creepy-crawly feeling, like the one time Kuririn had woken up at night to find a beetle walking over his chest.

Clang!

Kuririn grimaced, and he rubbed his face. I gotta' stop, he reprimanded himself, after walking straight into his front gate. I'm gonna' hurt myself if I keep doing that. This thought only elicited a snort from Kuririn, for it was a ridiculous notion. Like some stupid gate could really cause him more injury than a drunken father's fists.

The feeling of tension grew with each step Kuririn took toward the front door, and his mood did not improve when he realized he had left the gate open. The metal hinges creaked and groaned as the gate swung back and forth in the wind, sounding like the cry of some ancient, wailing demon. It wasn't a pleasant thought, and Kuririn felt a shiver run through him.

At last, he was unable to stall any longer. Drawing in his breath deeply, hoping the action would bring him strength and resolve, Kuririn pushed open the door and edged inside.

Dark. The house was dark. This fact immediately messed up Kuririn's plan to sneak into the house and up into his room unnoticed, because as soon as he was inside, he walked straight into the coat rack. It fell over with a loud crash!! that reverberated through the whole landing, and Kuririn knew the noise could be heard throughout the entire house. His eyes widened with fear, and Kuririn staggered backward, the door handle bumping painfully into his back.

Fumbling in the darkness, Kuririn finally managed to find the doorknob. His fingers closed over it, his hands slippery with sweat. He began to turn the knob, tightening his wrist, trying to keep the sound of the turning handle as quiet as possible.

Cre-e-a-a-k . . .

Kuririn whimpered, though he wasn't sure why. It was only a tiny noise. It wasn't like anyone would --

"There you are!"

A heavy hand grabbed Kuririn's arm, wrenching it around behind him, eliciting a short scream of pain from the small boy. Kuririn was spun around, his arm still held in an iron vice-grip, and his frightened gaze beheld the outraged face of his father.

The eyebrows were drawn together over two narrowed eyes. His mouth was twisted into an hateful sneer, and his facial features were so contorted that Kuririn had trouble recognizing him. He had never seen his father this angry!

"What did you think you were doing, boy?" his father demanded, and his breath was thick with the smell of vodka. "I got a call from the school today, saying that you skipped out. What in blazes were you thinking? You think you can run around, do whatever you want? You think you can take advantage of me? Huh?" he twisted Kuririn's arm. "Do you?"

"N-no, sir!" Kuririn shook his head, but was only able to half-complete the motion before thick fingers clamped beneath his chin, digging into his throat. The rest of the action, and any words Kuririn would have uttered, were cut off in a strangled gurgle.

"I'll teach you to disrespect me," the man growled, and to Kuririn's panicked ears, the voice sounded like the monster that sometimes assaulted Kuririn's dreams. A monster with whiskey-tainted breath, and bloodstained hands . . . "I'll strangle you!"

Run, I've got to run . . . the thoughts beat a steady tattoo in Kuririn's mind with a force that was almost painful. I've got to get away! I can't let him get me!

Instinct took over, replacing coherent thought, dictating his actions in a kind of petrified frenzy. Kuririn gripped his father's arms, a seemingly useless action, but then he dug his fingernails into the other man's skin, pinching hard. It was pitifully inadequate, but startling enough that his father loosened his grip.

Only for a second, but enough for Kuririn to arch his head downward -- without thinking, Kuririn sank his teeth into his father's hand.

His father yowled in pain, releasing Kuririn, clutching his hand to him and glaring at the blood with disbelief. Meanwhile, Kuririn slipped around the man's thick body, darting into the kitchen. He knew it wouldn't be long before he was followed, so he had to make every moment count.

Kuririn opened and shut drawers and cupboards rapidly, searching through them for anything he could use as an impromptu weapon, to keep his enraged father at bay. His eye fell on an empty vodka bottle, and Kuririn regarded it for a split second before dismissing the idea. He knew first-hand what happened when one of those was used, and he didn't want to kill his father, just hold him back.

Finally, Kuririn's hand closed over a solid object in the back of a drawer, and he brought it out. Not looking at what it was, Kuririn held the object tightly in his clenched fist, waiting, with the air of the mouse chosen to bell the cat. He wasn't kept long; within seconds, his father charged into the kitchen, breathing heavily, eyes narrowed to slits.

"You little brat!" he roared, striding forward and grabbing Kuririn by the collar, hauling him up to eye level. Kuririn had flashbacks of three days prior, but didn't allow them to overcome him. "If you thought last time was bad, just wait! You'll be thinking that was a massage at a blasted beauty parlour!"

Like before, Kuririn saw his father raise his fist. Unlike before, Kuririn was ready. Before the blow was struck, Kuririn lashed out his hand and hit his father in the head with whatever he was holding.

The resulting sound was halfway between a crack and a crunch. His father's eyes bugged out, an effect that would have seemed comical had the situation not been so dire, and a trickle of blood bubbled out one corner of his mouth. Blood began streaming from a cut behind his eye, then his eyes rolled back and he collapsed. The concussion from his fall shook the entire house.

Luckily, Kuririn was not caught underneath. He pried his father's fingers off his shirt, noting with apprehension that they were stiff and difficult to move. Panting, Kuririn stepped a few paces back, to gauge how long it would take his father to get up.

Minutes passed, and there was no movement. Kuririn swallowed hard, and his throat was suddenly dry and parched enough to rival any desert. "F-father?" Kuririn's timid voice cracked and wavered, and he began to fear the worst. Moving slowly, Kuririn made his way to his father's side, visually examining the body.

No movement. Not even a finger twitched. His eyes remained white, his chest stationary -- stationary? "No!" Kuririn gasped, the shock and horror of what he had done slamming into him like a cement truck. The boy fell to his knees, placed a trembling hand on the pulse point at his father's neck, then moved his fingers in front of the man's mouth.

No pulse. No breath. Upon further inspection, no heartbeat. Nothing.

Nothing.

"No!" Kuririn repeated, finding nothing else to say. He turned his head slowly, looked at the object, as yet unidentified, that he held, still clenched, in his fist.

A gun.

Kuririn slammed his eyelids shut, hoping that in so doing, he could stop the thoughts from forming in his head. A gun . . . that was even worse than the whiskey bottle! A gun would not shatter, would not break . . . wouldn't give at all; would only smash unrelentingly through the skull.

Bile rose up in Kuririn's throat, and before he could stop himself, he began to vomit. Clutching his sides in agony, Kuririn doubled over and gagged repeatedly, feeling as though he had been punched in the gut. Even when nothing else could be brought up, Kuririn's stomach still contracted upon itself, and the boy fell victim to dry heaves, retching and groaning.

Finally, when the effort had worn him out completely, Kuririn collapsed. He folded his legs up to his chest, but he was shaking so immensely that he couldn't move his arms to hold his knees, couldn't rock . . . couldn't even find the energy or the resolve to hum.

Eventually, a thought wormed its way through the chaos in Kuririn's brain, to burn through his consciousness like a red-hot fire poker. He was in the same room as a dead body . . . and he had made it dead.

Even though Kuririn hated his father, he burst into tears.

Still holding the gun, Kuriin straightened up, one hand over his cramped stomach. He deliberately avoided looking at the crumpled body on the floor, keeping his back to it as he walked out the door. Kuririn tried to keep his pace at a moderate level, but the more steps he took, the faster his legs moved. By the time he came to the front door, Kuririn was running at top speed. If he smashed into furniture or cracked his shoulder off a wall, he didn't care. He just wanted to leave.

There was the door . . . Kuririn wrenched the handle, yanking the door open. Run, now, down the steps . . . don't fall . . . down the sidewalk -- watch out for the crack, don't trip on it! -- past the front gate, ignore the ominous noises it's making, don't run into it . . .

All these warnings ripped through Kuririn's mind with such speed that they were barely registered, though somehow his feet obeyed, and all the potential hazards were bypassed. Once he was on the street, Kuririn kicked into high gear, the soles of his shoes slapping against the pavement, sounding like gunshots in Kuririn's frightened brain.

You killed him, you killed him, you killed him!

Kuririn shook his head, trying to erase the voice that was plaguing him, but to no avail. The realization of the consequences of his actions was far too powerful.

You killed him. You're a murderer. You're no better than he was . . . no better than when he killed your mother. You're just like him!

"No!" Kuririn shouted in denial, though no one was around to hear, and the voice wasn't listening. "I'm not like him! He's a bad man. I don't want to be a bad boy. I didn't mean to kill him!"

He didn't "mean" to kill her, either. You are a bad boy, just like he was. You're just like your father.

Kuririn was forced to stop running, as the signals from his brain to his feet were getting caught somewhere, and he stumbled. He stood in the centre of the road, left hand clutching his head, gripping his hair and tugging painfully. Screaming, "No, no, no! I'm not like him! No! No! NO!!"

The world grew bright, as the twin headlights from an air car shone straight into Kuririn's face. But Kuririn didn't notice -- didn't register the angry blaring of the horn, the angry words of the driver, or the whoosh of air as the vehicle swerved at the last second. He still stood, transfixed with horror, crying, begging the inner demons to leave him alone.

Just like your father.

"I'm nothing like him!"

Just like him.

"I'm not! I'm not! I'm not!"

You are. You're both killers.

"I didn't mean to . . . it was an accident . . ."

Like father, like son.

"No! Please, go away!"

It's your fault. It's all your fault. If your mother hadn't loved you so, she wouldn't have stood up to him. She would still be alive.

". . . no . . ." small, pleading.

It's true. And you know it's true. She died because she was protecting you.

"No . . . Mommy . . ."

He died because you killed him. That's two. How many six-year-olds have killed two people?

"I didn't -- I didn't -- stop it! Leave me alone!"

Kuririn broke into flight once more, not noticing where his feet were taking him, not caring. Not caring if he fell off a cliff. Not caring if he was run over. Anything to make it stop, to make the pain go away . . . to make everything all right again.

You're a killer. A six-year-old killer. You're following right in his footsteps.

"I am not!"

You'll be a drunkard next. Then who else will you kill?

"STOP IT!"

You can't change destiny. You can't alter what you've become.

"I can! I'm not . . . not like that!"

It's in your blood. You will be what he was. A killer. A drunkard. A coward.

"I won't!"

How many more will have to die before you realize it? You're a "bad boy" now . . . and you always will be.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Kuririn planted his feet firmly into the cement -- no, it was grass -- jolting himself to a stop. Hot, angry tears of betrayal and disbelief cascaded down his face like rain during a thunderstorm, but he didn't heed them. What if it was true? What if everything had been his fault? What if he was just a "bad boy?"

He clenched his fists, then frowned when the fingers of his right hand bit into something hard. Metal. Kuririn glanced down, and saw he was still holding the gun. The gun that had killed his father. The gun that made Kuririn start down the path of fate, leading him to his life as a killer . . . if it were true.

Kuririn's chest hitched, and his mouth trembled, for he knew there was only one way to escape destiny. If the voice was right -- if he was to grow up only to hurt people -- there was only one thing to do.

Kuririn had seen his father shoot before, testing the gun, and he knew how it worked. He placed his finger in the trigger guard, rested the tip of his finger on the trigger. Hands shaking, Kuririn lifted the gun. He pointed it at his head, pressing against the temple.

His body convulsing with sobs, Kuririn closed his eyes. I'm sorry, Mommy, he directed his thoughts to heaven, where he knew his mother was. I wish I could see you . . . but bad boys don't go to heaven. Bye-bye, Mommy . . .

He pulled the trigger.

The gun jerked, slamming painfully against Kuririn's head. It's over, he thought, almost exultantly, I'm free!

Seconds passed, and Kuririn was still standing. The throbbing in his head was gone. Confused and disoriented, Kuririn opened one eye cautiously, and was shocked to realize that he was still standing in the grassy glade, the gun aimed at his head. He was unharmed. It hadn't worked.

What?!

Incredulously, Kuririn stared at the gun in his hand, examining it for signs of defect, then he groaned. The little catch, which his father had called the "safety," was still in the locked position. Why did everything have to be so complicated? It was almost like something didn't want him to commit suicide.

Suicide . . . what an ugly word. Kuririn didn't think it applied to him anyway. Suicide was what happened to other people, disturbed people, people who made it on the news and made others shake their heads in sympathy. Suicide was something that shouldn't have happened -- it made people think, "Oh, that's too bad." Nobody would say that when Kuririn died, so did that still make it suicide?

Not that it mattered. Whether or not anyone cared, it wasn't going to make him stop. Kuririn's small chest heaved as he forced himself to stop crying, because he didn't want to miss -- or worse, hit himself in a non-lethal place and have to shoot himself again.

Nobody cares about me, Kuririn thought, as he put his finger on the safety and flicked it off, If only Mommy was here . . . she would tell me to stop. But nobody cares. People don't care about bad boys.

Once again, Kuririn aimed the gun at his head, and his finger tightened on the trigger --

"Don't do it!"

Gasping with shock, Kuririn dropped the gun, and it fell with a soft rustle to the grass, where it disappeared in the waving vegetation. "Wh-who are you?"

"I'm a friend," said a soft, gentle voice. "Please, don't do it."

Kuririn turned slowly, and he saw a small man standing a few feet away. Illuminated only by moonlight, Kuririn couldn't see much detail -- but it looked like he wore orange and brown robes, and his head was shaved. "Why do you care?" Kuririn demanded. Instinct told him to trust the man with the quiet, kind voice and caring, sympathetic smile, but Kuririn had been hurt and betrayed so many times -- the girl in the schoolyard had been nice, too -- that he drew away.

The man held out a hand and tried to touch Kuririn's shoulder, but the small boy shrank back. He didn't know how to deal with anything but beatings, and he didn't know what to do. "You don't even know who I am."

"It doesn't matter who you are," the man smiled again, and something in the expression reminded Kuririn of his mother. For the first time, flickers of trust began to mend Kuririn's shattered heart. "We care for everyone. Everyone is special."

Kuririn bit his lip to stop it from quivering, because he hadn't heard those words since his mother's disappearance . . . her death. If she could see him now, she would be so disappointed . . . if this man knew that Kuririn had killed his father and caused the death of his mother, he would not be standing there with such a compassionate smile on his face.

"I'm not special," Kuririn disagreed, and suddenly, everything crashed down upon his young shoulders at once. He collapsed in a heap, curling up in the fetal position in an attempt to become as small as possible. "I'm . . . I'm a bad boy . . ." he sobbed wretchedly, until he choked on his own tears and he nearly gagged. All he could do was repeat his words over and over. "I'm a bad boy . . . a bad boy . . . a bad . . . a bad . . . bad boy . . . I killed . . . I'm bad . . . I should die . . . I want to die . . . I'm a bad boy . . ."

Eventually, Kuririn wore himself out from crying, and he opened his eyes, the lashes wet with tears. He sucked in his breath in shock when he found where he was -- sitting on the man's lap, the man's arms around him in a comforting embrace, his head resting on the other's chest.

"It doesn't matter what you've done, or what you think you are," the man's gentle voice continued, soothing Kuririn's torn and bleeding soul. "You could leave all that behind, if you join us. You could start over. Everything that makes you feel unworthy or miserable, just leave it behind."

"J-join you?" Kuririn sniffled, and he blinked a few times to clear his vision. "What do you mean?"

"We are the monks of the Temple Orinji," the man explained, "Come with us, and leave your pain behind. We can give you peace."

Kuririn tilted his head to one side, considering, and though his suspicion still skirted his mind, Kuririn began to believe the man's words. "What would I do?" he frowned a little. "I don't wanna' go back home, but . . . I wanna' be a fighter, too. If I could fight, nothing . . ." he closed his eyes, shutting off the memories. ". . . none of this would have happened. Nobody would've been hurt, if I could've stood up to . . . to . . . F-fa . . ."

The monk nodded, and his eyes were warm. "Do not worry. All our students are trained in the martial arts -- you would learn to fight, my child. We are monks, yes, but at Orinji we are fighters. Do not be afraid -- you would not waste your life."

This news seemed, to the suffering boy, a beacon of light and hope. Peace and the promise of a new life, where Kuririn would not be blamed for the deaths of his parents . . . yet, he could learn to fight, as well? Such a prospect was incredible, and Kuririn's breath was shortened in excitement. He could start over.

All he had to do was trust.

Kuririn got to his feet, only swaying a little, and the man joined him. The boy looked around at the grove, at the trees and gardens, the leaves and flowers flowing gently in the night breeze. A sense of calm pervaded him, and then, his face twisted into an expression that was far too alien for him, having only touched him a handful of times in his short life, especially of late.

He smiled.

Kuririn reached out tentatively, and his small fingers were enfolded in the other's comforting grip. Hand in hand, the boy and his new mentor walked together into the building, Kuririn smiling the whole way. Somebody cares, Kuririn thought with wonder, He didn't even know my name, but he saved me.

The boy smiled as he was led through the halls of the temple. Somehow, he knew this was his mother's doing. Though she was gone, she was still watching out for him.

A wide grin spread across Kuririn's face, for through the windows, from the direction of the gardens, came the scent of lavender and lilac.

THE BEGINNING . . .