When I first saw him, I thought that he was pretty cool. Dark hair falling into his eyes just so, pale skin, silted eyes. Crossed arms and standing by the door, silent and mysterious. He was what everyone wanted to be. He had his own fan club. He was admired by his peers and teachers alike and was always looked up to though he couldn't care less.

He was powerful. He is powerful. But even that power that he has, the power in his eyes, was given to him because he was born at the right time to the right family, had the right kind of lust for blood, the right kind of anger inside of him. He had a loving family, a goal in life, to be just like his older brother. He worked hard and was deemed a genius. His family was then taken from him, cruelly, needlessly. And then he got stronger.

He was perfect. Ivory skin and hair that flowed and swayed in the wind. Those eyes that one could fall into and drown contently. That lanky, youthful body that was desirable in so many ways.

He calls himself an avenger and gave himself a single goal in life that he could never ever match up to. A goal that he would never reach. He was such a simple-minded child, for all the credit that is given to him. He doesn't think. He was too buried in his own guilt and traumatized, too selfish and unconcerned for the rest of the world around him. He couldn't see that yes, he was strong, but no, he would never be that strong. He was striving for a goal that he would never reach, not caring who he had to push down, kick down, stab, slash and kill in order to inch his way pathetically up the ladder of strength. The type of strength that he recognizes. The type of strength that is determined by how many people you can kill before getting noticed or how many new skills you can learn within a limited amount of time.

He's like a dark, fallen angel and the girls in his fan club swoon over him. But he is nothing. He is just an empty shell of a human being, already dead years ago, decayed and wasted away on the inside. Inside the recesses of his memory that is rapidly fading, already almost completely lost, he turns to a child with a strength he will never achieve, a child with bright blue eyes and a bright orange sweater who grins back at him, a grin that lights up the entire world. That memory is banished, gone, washed away in the raging waves of a waterfall, sinking into the valley, eaten by the darkness.

The last memory is being ripped up and thrown away turned to ashes. It is the memory of a bright blue-eyed boy who now has red eyes who is crying for him to come back. Cries that he does not heed.

I hate him.