15 years ago
John was the dominant male of the pack, he barked orders at all the others and snarled when he didn't get his way. He faced everything with ferocity and never took "no" as an answer.
John was also a pompous, stuck up little ass. Thorate discovered that the hard way.
Students of Harrem University were the special, the selected. They were also the cursed. There are said to be two different types of students, the ones with fists and the ones with wits. It didn't take long for Thorate to recognize he didn't fit into either of these categories.
It wasn't the fact that he wasn't intelligent, Was himself had acknowledged his astounding astuteness. He also wasn't that weak. Toughened to pain and used to a thorough pounding, Thorate was much like a nail that had been hammered on too many times. He had a spirit. He had a will. He just didn't have the senses.
Living in a cupboard had thrown his senses into a crazed sort of confusion. While his vision was perfect in the dark, it lacked in the light. And while his nose could pick up smells that no human would be able to track, his brain wasn't able to recognize them or remember them. His taste buds were half dead, and his hearing had become poor. Even his touch had been affected from a life under a man who felt only loneliness.
John met Thorate on the first day of his classes. His first impression wasn't all that striking. Another depressing idiot. He laughed and joked with his friends about the pale little runt sitting in the front row. They rolled up balls of paper and threw them at the child's head and became enraged when the little five-year-old ignored them. The nerve!
Headsir did nothing to stop the torment that Thorate was being put through, for if the boy said nothing, neither should he. So that is why he continued to teach "Survival techniques" to the rest of the 56 students. Their one table class.
As Headsir barked the final words of his strenuous lecture, John began stepping down the stairs towards the front row. Thorate had barely managed to stand before he was shoved back into his seat.
"What's the matter Bitch? Too good for us?" The rest of his small group laughed.
Thorate said nothing; he didn't even acknowledge the older boy.
A hush fell over the group. He wasn't responding.
Thorate stood again and picked up a small piece of paper with tiny scribbles on it.
"Look at that, John," one of the boys with him said with a laugh. "He takes notes just like any common school boy."
Thorate said nothing.
John was scoffing along with the rest, and held out his plump little hand. "Give me that piece of paper," he demanded in a gruff voice.
Thorate said nothing but held out the piece of paper in a steady hand. John ripped it away and stared. The five-year-old before him took the distraction as a chance to gather the rest of his things and leave.
John's insides quaked in sudden fear. The paper.
I dream of killing
Never of living
For you are a Wrong.
Never had John received such a blunt, yet chilling letter. What was it? What was the creature that handed him this? What was a Wrong?
The other students laughed as they read the letter, they didn't fell the power behind it, nor the threat it implied, all they saw was a little boy bearing a sword much too big.
Thorate knew very well the meaning behind the letter. It was easily comprehendible. John was going to die. Whether it was sooner than later, John was going to die.
Suddenly John couldn't keep his eyes of the boy. Following his every move, watching his growth. Measuring himself against him. It was no use. He was going to die. Though, he may have known that from the beginning, for he is a Wrong.