Arachna

Chapter 1: Where Are My Parents?

"He bit his ear off!"

The shout silenced the other children in the room, who'd just been echoing, "Fight! Fight! Fight!"

The taste of copper was bitter in his mouth. His ears rang, and the walls closed in. The kid in front of him, cursing and spitting only moments before, was curled into a ball, cradling what was left of his ear.

He spat out the blood pooled in his mouth and wiped his bloodied nose. Fear crawled up his spine as a woman tore through the crowd of kids and knelt beside the injured child. Then she looked at him, fear and anger evident in her eyes. He tried to explain himself, but his tongue was dead in his mouth, for any excuse he had would not change that look on her face. Would she even care?

"I'll call an ambulance," the woman cooed to the injured child. She looked at him again, a thick layer of discipline covering the fear in her eyes. "And you... I'll deal with you later." The tone of her voice was cruel and cold.

He expected the children to taunt him for getting into trouble, but as he surveyed the kids, their faces showed nothing but fear.

He opened his mouth, but his tongue remained lifeless.

"Monster!" one of the kids shouted, pointing a finger at him.

"Monster!" cried another one.

One by one, each child joined in on the chant, shouting "Monster!" at him, over and over. The chorus echoed in the room, and he covered his ears, tears stinging his eyes as they chanted ceaselessly.

He looked at the woman, a silent plea to make them stop. He tried to tell her that he didn't mean it, but his tongue was leaden. Shaking his head, he backed away. The fear that clutched the children only moments before dissipated into nothing, and they took a step forward.

What would happen if he stayed here? What would they do?

There was no other option.

He ran.

His feet pounded against the floor, and he burst through the front door of the orphanage. Cold air pierced his skin and stung his eyes, but he kept running.

He ducked into a narrow alleyway and curled into a ball in a dark corner.

He wiped tears from his cheeks with his sleeves, looking up at the starless night sky. He sobbed and curled up tighter. He couldn't go back—not now, not ever. The closest thing he'd ever had to a home was gone, and he was all alone.

"I'm not a monster," he muttered to himself, rubbing more tears from his cheeks. "I'm not."

* * *

Eight years had passed since that night, yet he still woke with a start, the same words spilling from his lips.

"I'm not," he breathed.

He blinked a few times, looking up at the cracked ceiling. Paint was peeling from it and the walls of his bedroom.

His heart pounded in his chest, and he sighed, running a hand through his long black hair.

He stared at his ceiling, the dream running through his head over and over. He cursed at it, as if it could hear him, as if it would even care. Almost every night, the dream haunted him. Always the same dream.

He took one look at the clock on the wall and groaned. Time to get up.

Maybe after today, he could relieve himself of these dreams.

Maybe.

* * *

"Hi, my name is Lance," he said, forcing a polite smile. He rolled his eyes and sighed. "Stupid." He shivered from the cold bath, his clothes clinging to his skin. The dream burned in his memory like an ugly scar he couldn't hide.