Nameless ≫ Jarchie

_Prologue_

He loved the rain.

He loved its smell, its sound, it's touch. He felt as if Rain should've been his name, but it didn't feel right along with all of the other hundreds and thousands of names he's tried to force onto himself. Oh well, he thought as he looked outside his window at the blinding substance as it poured.

He loved Seattle.

He loved it because it always seemed to be raining, and the rain created the perfect mood to sulk and read in as he was doing now. Books felt like hugs, a loving gesture that he'd never received before but would guess felt like what holding a book felt like. He rubbed his delicate finger tips over the rigid cover of his favorite book and sighed deeply.

He loved reading.

He loved transporting himself to places that were anywhere but here, because he hated everything that existed besides books. He always thought in extremes, and he never lied. He only hated things, or loved things. He either never did something, or he always did. He always read.

He loved words.

He loved the way words glistened off of crisp, printed pages, and branded themselves inside of his quick, nimble mind. When his brain ingested the mystical devices, they shimmered and sparked, sending waves of intellectual pleasure throughout his body. Words were the only things he felt he could feel besides rain. It's ironic how words were what got him to the horrid place he was in, or rather, a lack of one in particular.

He loved the dark.

He loved how unsettling and dangerous the dark was, because it made him feel as if he wasn't alone. He hated being alone, but he hated everything in existence.

It was a predicament.

He hated predicaments.

He always tried to focus on things he loved, but it never worked.

He was always reminded of what he hated in the end.

He twisted his dark, raven hair with his fingers absentmindedly as he sat hunched over in the window seat he seemingly never moved from. The hair twisting was a habit of his, a habit that had bestowed the nickname "Black Licorice" upon him due to the mesmerizing way his hair coiled into strands that resembled the widely hated candy. Similarly, the boy was hated just as much.

The hatred either came from fear, or jealousy. He was good looking, strikingly beautiful, devastatingly handsome, and unknowingly gorgeous. It was a shame, everyone in his living quarters supposed, how good genes had gone to waste on such a peculiar boy. He was 17 years, 10 months, 12 days, 7 hours, 33 minutes, 22 seconds, and counting. He was blessed with long, slender legs and shimmering green eyes that gave the boy an uncharacteristically bright appearance for someone so solemn and dull. He had the fingers of a piano player; long, lyrical, strong, and poised, for someone who's never touched a piano, let alone any other instrument, in his life. His hair was naturally wavy and full, the kind of hair his admirers would want to run their fingers through if their weren't so afraid that the owner of it would bite.

Although he never showed signs of being dangerous, there was just something about him to fear. Perhaps it was fear of the unknown. Nobody was more mysterious than he was. He barely talked, but when he did, an awkward form of old English emitted from his raspy throat.

He never smiled. He never laughed. He never cried. He always spoke monotonously. It was almost as if he was a robot, and he liked it that way. Everybody knew not to bother him and he loved that.

What a peculiar boy.

A knock on his bedroom door interrupted him from his thoughts as he turned his head to face the intruder who decided to walk right on in

He hated when people did that.

"Hey." The man said lazily, yawning as he sat across from the boy on the window seat. He was tall with rough brown eyes and chocolate colored hair. The man always reminded the boy of Abraham Lincoln, but he went by Fred Andrews. It's not because Fred Andrews was honest, honorable, ugly, or witty and sarcastic, it was just because the boy had met him while reading a biography on Abraham Lincoln.

Fred Andrews was a social worker who came by to visit from time to time. The boy had no parents, not like he'd be able to remember them anyways, and he lived in a huge apartment with his adoptive parents who didn't seem to like him much at all. He had been assigned to them in exchange for government compensation, and that's exactly where their relationship ended. The boy would stay home, sit through home teaching, eat, read, and sleep. There were four other adopted teens who lived with him as well, but they shared closer relationships with their adoptive parents. Everyone was fine with that. However, social worker visits were still mandatory.

At first, he hated the visits.

Eventually, he realized that Fred Andrews wasn't so bad.

"Hello Mister Andrews." The boy replied, closing his book gently and staring at his social worker expectantly.

"Are you excited for school tomorrow?" He asked, eyeing the boy in front of him carefully.

"No I am not excited for school tomorrow. I do not understand the change." The boy said expressionlessly.

"Your tutor thinks it'll be a good idea to interact with people your own age." Fred sighs.

"I do. I interact with the other three adolescents in this household when I am asked to. I wave hello or I execute a polite nod like so." The boy explained, nodding rigidly to prove his point.

"When I say interact, I mean make friends and have real conversations." Fred laughed lightly. "My son goes to the same school you're going to attend. Maybe you'll take a liking to him."

"I have tried to make friends once. One child asked what my name was and I said that I did not have one. He laughed and extended his pointer finger at me. He called me no name so I then proceeded to call him no neck because his body fat had noticeably formed what you might call a quadruple chin which covered the entire surface area of where his neck should have been. I had gotten expelled from the school for inappropriate conduct afterwards." He said simply, staring blankly at Fred.

Fred choked on his own spit for a second, causing the boy to awkwardly reach over and pat him on the back. He asked "are you okay" but it sounded more like a statement.

"I'm fine, I'm fine." Fred coughed, trying to wipe the small smile off his face. "Speaking of names, what are the new contenders?"

"Jesse and Ethereo, deriving from the word 'Ethereal'" he replied.

"Any of those two fit?"

"No. Names never fit me."

"One day, you'll find a name."

"I wish I could know what name I was born with. If I knew, I would be different." He said randomly, causing Fred to frown.

"It's not your fault that you don't remember. Accidents happen, at least you survived." Fred assured.

"I have been pondering this. I am not sure if surviving a traumatic experience is worth not knowing who I am. For instance, was I always this way? Have I always hated mankind, or did this feeling of disdain arise after I woke from my comatose? Have I always loved books? Did I possess parents? Most importantly, what was my name? A name is equivalent to a person's identity. I feel as if my identity has been stripped away from me ever since the accident. I feel as if I am not living, Fred Andrews, for I feel as if I am not a human being without my name. So again, my question would be; Is surviving really better than living?"

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What do you think? Should I continue this?