September Scyther : Creepypasta Backstory (UNDERGOING EDITING)

Chapter 1 (edited)

At fifteen, most teens would have their amazing group of friends. Boys or girls they could trust with their feelings, their secrets. Not September, he wouldn't, felt he couldn't, trust anyone. At school, he walked alone. Other people tried to talk to him; tried to get him to have fun, smile, joke around, but he couldn't. The reason? Seven still-born siblings.

September was the only child who was born alive. His parents spoiled him because of it; letting him have whatever he wanted. Having lived on a farm his entire life, all he really wanted was to continue what he had always done. So for his fifteenth birthday, his parents got him a scythe to work the fields with.

Being an already solitary boy, being given a reason to be alone made it far worse. He always had a reason to be out in the fields, swinging his scythe under the hot fall sun. One day, in late August, he was out in the fields, near the woods, when he heard a deathly scream from the house. His head immediately shot up, pausing the intense labor, "Mom...?"

He stopped his work completely and ran toward the house; when he came to it he busted open the front door with his shoulder, running into the dining room where he held up his scythe, ready to defend his mother. She was perfectly fine, "Mom? What happened??"
His mother looks up, her hand over her heart, "Oh, it was nothing September, just a rat."

He pauses for a moment, "You screamed like that because of a rat?" He sighs softly, and turns to head back out. Once outside, he looks down at his arms, pale even after so many years of working in the sun. While he was distracted by his thoughts, he didn't notice the suspicious figure lurking near the edge of the field.

The next day was September's first day back to school after a long summer. Over the entire day he kept his head down and his hands in his pockets. He was grateful when the final bell rang; grabbing his stuff and throwing it over his shoulder before running home as fast as he could. He finally slowed down once he reached the farm's crop field.

The stiff cornstalks clicked against each other in a light breeze, sounding like a clock, constantly ticking away the time. The sound used to be comforting to him, but today it seemed ominous. He slowly weaved his way through the field to the farmhouse, pushing open the already cracked front door. Usually his mother would be in the kitchen making dinner at this point while his father read the afternoon paper in his favorite chair. They weren't there to greet him this time, however, only increasing the feeling of foreboding.

Before ascending the stairs, September made his way to the barn, dropping his bag and grabbing his scythe. Everything was as quiet as before back at the house. The groaning protest of the stairs as he climbed them deafening in the silence. The door to his parents room was open, and through it he could see a spreading pool of blood, his mother's limp hand drenched in the scarlet liquid.

September's eyes burned with unshed tears as he approached the room. His parents were dead, their skulls brutally bashed in. The weapon, a bloodied crowbar, lay nearby. His father still had the expression of peaceful sleep, while his mother's face held the remnants of surprise, anger, and fear. Her other hand, that he hadn't seen before, loosely held a shotgun that she had been unable to use.