The Boy in Byakkoya

Chapter One

Rain began to pour on my way home from the store. I stuffed the plastic bag under my shirt to prevent the bag from getting wet. Cars splashed water on my already soaked clothes as they continued to pass by. The crossing signal changed swiftly as did I to ensure I wasn't going to be hit by someone in a rush while I crossed.

Finally, at the door of where I lived. Creaking the door open, the aroma of dinner filled my nostrils lifting me inside as I closed the door behind me. Slipping off my cold and soaked shoes I set the plastic bag on the ground briefly so I could take off my socks. After, I walked into the kitchen to see my foster-mother stir a pot.

"Did you get what I asked for?" She asked not paying me any attention.

I set the wet plastic bag on the counter where she spread it open pulling out the cabbage she requested to complete dinner. She tossed me a knife and pointed to the cutting board and I began to chop the cabbage into pieces.

My foster parents are good to me in a sense that I have never been treated any better so I cannot say I have the luxury of being spoiled. They have one daughter about five years older than me but she doesn't live here anymore because of her residence at college.

At least she had the luxury of knowing her real parent's unlike me. Abandoned at birth, multiple foster parents, and orphanages. The only thing that was told to me was that I have an unusual birthmark that almost resembles a tattoo. No nobody would have given an infant a tattoo though.

After I finished chopping the cabbage I sent myself to my room upstairs. The rain poured harder I could hear it crash on the roof as I began to strip down from my soaked clothes. The door opened slightly and my foster-father stood at the door silently while I dressed in pajamas. He finally closed the door softly.

Reaching my school bag I grabbed my sketchbook. Climbing onto my bed I began to sketch what my real parents might have looked like. Since I had brown hair it must have come from my dad. The bright brown eyes must have come from my father too. But I bet I get my smooth nose from my mom, my crisp brown skin, and maybe even my big forehead.

Gazing at my sketchbook creation it almost made me feel comfortable with who I was but then I remembered my current position as an orphan. It's hard to believe that I have no living relatives and no life prior to me being abandoned. My foster-mother shouted that it was time for dinner so I shut my sketchbook to head downstairs.

The dining room was set up already with the utensils and food. I sat down at the table where my foster-parents held my hands and began to say grace. I was never a 'true' Christian but it was a requirement to live under their roof. If a God did really exist then why cast such misfortune on a boy? Why give him no identity? Why given him no pride? Why give him no proof of existence? If anything I'm practically non-existence. My foster-mother concluded grace and we all began to eat dinner.

My foster-father stuffed his face like usual while his wife ate slowly to conserve he figure. Taking a spoonful of the soup I said with a soft tone, "This is delicious, Mother."

She smiled and my foster-father clenched his fist. Seeing that I put my head down to eat and again the room was filled with silence. It was so quite anyone could hear the rain poured on the roof from downstairs. After dinner was over I went back to my room and locked the door.

After hours he would start to drink and become belligerent of his actions. He beats her sometimes but, apologies saying 'it was an accident and it will never happen again' but of course it does.

Pulling up my blanket I brought out my sketchbook once again to look at the sketch of what my real parents would look like. The birthmark on my shoulder blade was feeling irritated so I scratched it a few times. I added a few minor details about the sketch. Maybe one of them had the same birthmark as I do or may-