A Study On Murder And Its Benefits

Chapter 1 - A Child Without A Name

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"He who is unable to live in society, or who has no need because he is sufficient for himself, must be either a beast or a god."

- Aristotle

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When looking back on the life of any given person, one must consider things in the proper order.

Consider then, my dear reader, the parents of the baby that came before the child that came before the man we know as Beyond Birthday. Can you picture them? Probably not. There is no record of their existence, even, as there was no record of the baby that sprang from their genes.

Sad as it is to say, it is likely that the baby came from no respectable background. It’s probable that he was born by a cheap prostitute, too poor to schedule an abortion and too cowardly to attempt one herself, the father unknown even to her, just a nameless face from an endless stream of unremarkable clients. After his initial moments in the world, the then innocent soul was promptly abandoned to the harsh realities of the world, before it had even been given a name.

Such is life, however, and many have been born into similar circumstances. So what made this one instance different?

The one characteristic that separated Beyond from all other human beings; the curse of Shinigami eyes.

Now some may dispute my choice of words; after all, how could such a thing be a curse? Viewing a person’s name at a glance, able to predict the moment death would strike, how could this be seen as anything but a gift?

But how could an endless stream of names be anything but a mockery to one that had no name of his own? What meaning did life or death have to a child really, other than ‘there’ and ‘not there?’ It was something that set the child apart, a sight that he probably didn’t even realize that only he possessed until later in his life.

So yes, it can aptly be named a curse. It can be speculated upon, how such a thing happened, why this child bore such a mutation upon its body and soul. In the end, it is a mystery that can never be solved.

Therefore, we shall move past it, for now.

And we shall move on past the ‘probable,’ and into the ‘possible’ of the life that may have been.

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The dumpster was clear, for the time being at least. A small tongue came out to sooth chapped lips, red eyes staring warily around the corner. Shoved between an Italian Restaurant and a bakery, the ally was the best place to find discarded bit of food for miles around. As such, it was usually a bad idea to scrounge in it unless you were big and strong enough to defend yourself from anyone else hungry and desperate enough to look for a meal there.

Small even for a five year old, he stood a good chance of being eaten himself, if he was caught.

His stomach growled insistently, and he could almost feel the concave shape squeezing his middle. He hadn’t eaten for a few days, all his other usual haunts had been raided already. He didn’t need much, just something to tide him over, a morsel he could grab quick and run to eat somewhere else. He wasn’t stupid. Hanging around to eat and trying to get more was just asking to get killed.

About to make his move, he started as a small form disconnected from the shadows a little farther down the ally, running straight to the dumpster. A little girl, he saw, maybe a year or two older than him. And nearly wasted away to nothing. She probably hadn’t eaten for longer than him, and it showed in the desperate way she shoved the food in her mouth, not even bothering to brush off the bugs first.

Still, he gulped as her hand came out with a handful of fresh pasta, with some sauce left on it even. He bit his lip, legs shifting, starting and second guessing himself. He doubted the girl would put up a fuss if he tried to join her, but two would attract more attention than one.

The nape of his neck prickled, and he took a few steps back away from the ally, his eyes focused on the large shadow blocking the light from the street. Pressing himself into a corner, he didn’t dare run, knowing it would only attract attention.

So he stood, and watched.

It was a behemoth of a man, all bulk and muscle like some sort of bear. Brock McMullen, his name read. He had a tattoo on his left arm, some sort of tribal symbol, he was having trouble making it out in the dark. But it was easy to recognize the look in his eyes.

A look that said he wasn’t just hungry for the food the dumpster offered. His eyes had almost a fever glow to them, something devilish and dangerous that he had learned to recognize.

He glanced back to the still, shaking form of the girl the man was bearing down on, watching the numbers floating above her head swiftly running down. He didn’t glance at her name, didn’t want to know her name. It would be easier, if he could just think of her without a name. It made her less real.

Less human. It was easier, since she was about to die.

He couldn’t move, no matter what happened. She was going to die, but that didn’t mean he had to as well. He would wait it out.

He let his eyes slip closed as the screams began, the begging and the pleading as a small, starved body was brutally taken, broken, and thrown away like a useless toy. Finally it was quiet, but for the sounds of the large man gorging himself on the food in the garbage can.

He truly hoped he got his fill. Otherwise he might begin to devour the body as well.

He didn’t have to look at the limp corpse to know the numbers above its head had run down to zero.

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The blood was flowing freely, getting into his eyes and matting his hair. The smell was clogging his nose, making him gag and wretch, stopping just short of vomiting. He couldn’t afford to lose the little he had in his stomach.

The dog in front of him snarled, looking all the more vicious with her ribs sticking out and the sores on her legs. She didn’t have long left, he could see. Nor did her pups, whimpering and cowering behind her, not in fear but in hunger.

He gripped the shard of glass in his hand more tightly, taking a step forward. She had already bitten him on the arm, and knocked his head open bashing him against the wall. But he had slashed her side open in a long, gaping wound. It had to be draining her.

Long, still moments passed between them, before she finally charged, lunging at him. But the cut hindered her, and she had misjudged. As he dodged, she stumbled, and that was all the opportunity he needed to plunge the shard past her eye and into her brain.

Her time ran out within seconds.

He pulled out the glass quickly, wiping the fluids covering it on his pants, before turning to the pups. The mother was old and ill and practically rotting. Eating her would probably kill him within days. But the pups were young, and though underfed, still healthy enough to have some meat on them.

He didn’t hesitate when he raised the makeshift knife, pushing the sharp point deep into the first pups belly.

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He slipped easily into the crowd of children watching the fight, levering up on his tip toes to try and see more of the action. It was the only entertainment they ever saw, and brutal as it was, they took their enjoyment where they could.

Two men. One over six feet, with meaty arms and a thick neck, throwing huge fists around like mallets. The other, smaller, more whipcord. He moved fast, and aimed for the softest parts of the body, where he could do serious damage.

“The big un’ is gonna win, I’m telling’ you. Jus’ watch, you’ll see.” It was a dark haired boy speaking, his voice lisped and a bit of spittle running down his chin. Most of his front teeth had been knocked out, likely against a dumpster. Nothing remarkable about him, other than the doggedness in his voice. He’d probably been raised on the streets by a few older siblings, and thought he knew everything there was to know about how life worked. It was that sort of arrogance that would get him killed, that had probably gotten his teeth knocked out. He could already see some other children scooting away from the boy, not wanting to be perceived with him by the smaller fighter’s friends, or the one’s betting on him in the match.

Besides, the boy was wrong anyway. The smaller man was going to win, he could see it. The bigger fighter’s lifespan was steadily decreasing with every blow his opponent landed, the smaller man’s only rising. It would be over in a few minutes, at most.

Soon enough, the bigger man left an opening, and got an elbow shoved into his neck. The crack was loud and final as the blow connected.

There were shouts of triumph and victory, as well as some grumbles from those supporting the other man. The boy who had spoken out had the grace to look embarrassed, though he quickly turned sullen. There were no tears, or screams, or family to mourn.

The crowd dispersed, leaving the body for the police to clean up later.

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I will take a moment to interrupt, if you don’t mind, to mention a small fact you might have already realized.

That at some point in the proceedings up to this point, the child realized that not everyone shared his Shinigami sight, not that he knew it as such.

Perhaps you are wondering why I did not attempt to include this discovery in my narration, why I didn’t give some clear cut scenario as to how the child found out how truly unique he really was.

The answer is simple; some things are so profound that they cannot be captured by mere words.

Perhaps there was one great moment of insight that led to the child’s conclusion, or perhaps it was a slow process of self-discovery, experimentation, trial and error that led him to it. For all we know, he may have been born with the innate knowledge that his eyes were a trait he shared with no one else in the world. I simply do not know. And it is not something I have the ability, or desire, to try and dictate.

I leave you to form your own ideas on the matter, and continue with what scenes I can disclose.

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A/N: Okay, first chapter up. Not gonna guarentee constant updates, because frankly I don't know when I'll get the time to write. But I hope you like the story so far.

Reviews are awesome sauce.