I shouldn't be starting this, Gashh.

His parents were murdered. Killed, right in front of his eyes when he was too young to understand why Mommy was screaming and Daddy was covered in sticky red stuff. He was too young to realize that they weren't sleeping. He was too young to understand that finger painting with their blood was weird and quite frankly disturbing. He was too young to know the bad men with no faces were slaughtering them. He was too scared to leave his hiding place.

He was a twisted child, the kind that ripped the wings off butterflies and smiled softly and innocently as he did it, finding the way their wings tore beautiful. His child like universe full of pain and torture.

He was quickly shoved into a fosters home, and a nice lady found him. The way he hid behind the head carer and giggled at her wincing when he dug his sharp nails into her was cute to this lady, or something. She transported him to a spotless home with white furniture and white everything, the only colour was her beautiful bright red hair, dyed. She fed him Jam as a treat, I guess you could say that was the start of his fetish for the stuff, but, anyway. One day, the pretty woman, name not disclosed, brought her boyfriend home. The boy would sit in his biased blue room listening to them for a year go from sex to screaming to angry make up sex. He would sit, staring up at the wall as she begged him not to hurt her anymore, then screamed for him to screw her harder. He would sit, his little brain becoming slowly more and more confused as to what a real, healthy relationship was.

Eventually, it was just arguing. Painful arguing. Everywhere. In front of the boy also. He could remember sitting at the white, plastic, kitchen table one day, sipping orange juice when Boyfriend stalked into the living room, Woman scurrying after. The kitchen and living room had no dividers, and the front door was to the right, so the little, eleven year old boy saw everything. She got too close and grabbed Boyfriend's arm. Boyfriend immediately pulled back and struck her hard across the face, causing her to stumble to the floor. The boy watched as he kicked the woman he had grown to call mother. He watched, and watched, and watched, as abusive boyfriend beat Woman to death, screaming at her about how she shouldn't touch him. The boy watched as Boyfriend stopped, a hairs breath away from stomping her head in, she was coughing up blood and sobbing. Then the boy stood, picking the knife from the sink, and walked slowly to the man. He held it back, and drove it into the mans shoulder, before bringing his foot down on the woman's head, ending her suffering.

"You two deserve to die together," the boy whispered, pulling the knife out of the man's shoulder and placing it in his hands, "so please, end your worthless, pathetic existence before I do."

After this the boy strode casually to his bedroom, grabbed a shirt, and left through the window. He didn't need them fuckers, he didn't need fostering. He just prayed to God the bastard killed himself. And don't ask why he needed one shirt and nothing else, I doubt it's important.

He wandered aimlessly, eventually stumbling into a place someone had told him was called Winchester. He sat on a bench, completely lost and confused; London was massive to his eleven year old self and he was surprised he'd made it this far. He stood slowly, wincing at the back pain 'caused by sleeping on the floor. Then he walked forward, surprised when he body crashed into a gate he hadn't noticed before, knocking him unconscious immediately.

Gosh, when would he get a break.

The boy awoke in a foyer, in someone's arms; an older boy.

"Hey Roger!" the older boy screamed, 'causing the younger boy's head to explode in pain, "Look at what I found!" The protagonist whimpered in pain, and the Older Boy noticed, apologizing and putting the protagonist down on his feet.

"Who're you?" The older boy asked, "I'm A, hah. We just have to wait here until Roger comes. Hey, are you okay?"

The boy, a.k.a; our protagonist, was heavy on his feet, barely able to process what the boy called A was saying, too many questions.

"I'm uh," he mumbled, "ugh I don't can't remember."

"Shit do you have concussion?"A asked, sounding genuinely concerned, although the boy couldn't see his face, as his vision was blurry as hell.

"I don't know?" The boy said, sitting in the spotless, checker tiled hallway.

"God you have, Roger's here, it'll be fine, you'll be fine."

When the boy came too, he found himself in a rather plain room with one bed, a desk, a en suit bathroom, on the small table next to him there was a tray of food, picked at by bacteria and a cup of coffee with a crust on it; they'd obviously expected him to wake up earlier. Also on the table was a short note, written neatly.

We found out who you are and studied your test scores from your schools intensively only to find you scored over average for your age; way over average. Welcome to the house, you're letter is B, pick a name to go with if you wish.

The boy, sorry, B, raised an eyebrow, reading the note again and again, trying to decide if they were being serious, above average? he hardly went to school, Women only forced him in for exams, he didn't even stick around to see what he scored. But it was the last bit that caught his eye.

As you are the second highest scorer upon entry, you will be sharing with A.

That pretty, blurry boy that brought him here?

Well, this could get interesting.

So so so, love, hate? :'3 I want to know if this is worth continuing hah.