Boys Don't Cry

A Letter

I am growing up in a family of endless brothers.

We all have no more family.

We all look different.

But, we were all deemed advanced.

Once you come, you are here for your childhood. It doesn't matter wether or not you applied yourself, because they already knew you were somehow exceptional.

Tim? My brother.

Dean? My brother.

Louie? My brother.

The kid in the room next to me who cries himself to sleep? Whoever he is, my brother.

They're all my brothers, as I am their brother.

We have two fathers.

There is Quillish Wammy, the owner, who cares for L, and occasionally monitors recess periods.

There is also Roger Ruvie, who oversees most else.

We have a mom, Nursey, who always has time for a short "Hello", and longer if you're sick.

We have aunts and uncles, but they vary. We all have the one maid/cook/janitor that we talk to, sometimes more.

We have cousins when a brother goes away to join a newfound extension of his biological family.

We have twins, but only one current set.

We sometimes get biological brothers who find themselves with exponentially more siblings, and the shock that waves over them is priceless to see.

We have classes here.

We eat here.

We have holidays here.

We sleep in chambers here.

We bathe here.

We host religious services here.

We play here.

The unlucky fall ill here.

The especially unlucky fall and die here.

In which case, funerals and memorials are held here.

Legends have grown in here.

Criminals have grown.

Doctors.

Surgeons.

Soldiers.

Men of all studies and all careers have walked out of the gates, nearly all of them great. Many with lined up scholarships.

This is our catalyst to become brilliant. This is the tumbling chamber to change us from worthless pebbles to beautiful, polished bits of something.

We will clutch our brethren to our hearts, pin them proudly to our lapel. We will laugh again with each other and strive to meet up.

Our wives will greet and gossip together.

Our children will be shoved together and they will play as we direct them to do so.

This is Wammy's House.

This is an orphanage for the gifted.

This is our origin, our mold.

This is where we begin and our mind turns to when we are senile.

Imagine now, an army of unwanted misfit boys, united by a common IQ. A number to build an army. A glacier of death and unfortunate circumstance leaving behind deposits of some precious, some industrially useful, some widely innovative minerals.

So yes, I am fine.

Do you like Akazukin ChaCha?

-Sent from an unknown ward of Wammy's house to a woman claiming to be his mother (preferred to remain anonymous)

[Welcome to my variety show of short stories and one-shots! Before I explain things, let me say that I envisioned the writer of the letter as A, not B, as the Akazukin ChaCha line leads you to believe. I think that at the very least, B mentioned it to A.

So how things will run: I post things.

Please criticize, vote, comment, ship, etc.

I emphasize: PLEASE CRITICIZE. I NEED IT TO KNOW WHAT I'M DOING. I am not a mind reader, please, please tell me what you think.]