kalopsia. [gyutaro]

[ 壹 ]

"Get out of our sight, you disgusting child!"

"No one could ever accept such an ugly child as you!"

"Worm!"

"Dimwit!"

"Good-for-nothing!"

Gyutaro tried to shield himself from the rocks pelting his fragile form with his arms, littered with smudges of dirt and scratches. His face was already swollen up with bruises from the beating his mother had given him only earlier. For being useless, a burden. Nothing but another mouth to feed, just as the other children like himself were seen as. But the treatment he received was many times worse than anyone could imagine.

What the people were saying to him, what his mother did to him: it was nothing new for Gyutaro.

He had been treated like this his whole life. Born into the lowest class of the Entertainment District at the Rashomon Riverbank in Yoshiwara, beauty was the measure of your value. Unfortunately for Gyutaro, he was cursed with an ugly voice and appearance, making him the lowest of the low. He was greatly despised and mocked for this, and rocks were thrown at him just as of now for being filthy.

Before he was even born, his mother had tried killing him more than once. Even after he was born, his mother attempted to kill him again and again. Yet he still managed to survive despite his weak body and frame that resembled a withered leaf.

It was as if all the world's abuse and insults were meant for him and him only.

It was a sad, pathetic, pathetic life. Why was this world so cruel? What did he ever do to deserve all this pain and suffering? For simply existing? It wasn't his fault for being born. For being ugly. So why was he treated so unfairly?

Gyutaro would ponder this day and night when he was insulted, beaten, hungry, and forced to sleep outside for the night with the dirt ground as his bed. He would wish that he had been born with a handsome face and pleasant voice just so that people wouldn't treat him horribly. He would wish that he had been born into a rich family so that he wouldn't have to know what starvation was. But here he was, living in the slums, barely clinging to life, the complete opposite of what he wished to be.

He finally managed to escape his discriminators, nearly tripping himself multiple times before ducking into a small, dark alleyway between slum buildings. It was filled with a malodorous odor, puddles of waste and feculent water covering the dirt ground. He paid no mind to it, as he was used to the filthiness anyway. In fact, he could say his surroundings reflected his own filthy condition in a way.

Gyutaro leaned against the wood wall of the building behind him, disregarding the moss and grime growing on it. Dragging a hand through his unruly black hair, he stared down at his injured arms and legs. He felt tears well up in his eyes from how much it hurt, but he quickly wiped them away. Crying would do nothing for his situation, and he knew that. No matter how much suffering he went through. He couldn't; shouldn't. As painful as it was.

He couldn't show weakness in this world. Besides, no one would care less if he cried. People would treat him with the same amount of apathy as they always did. No one cared. No one will care. And no one would ever care.