Greetings people who read. I decided to write this because there is, well, squat about Kid's past in the manga and I've been dying to know more. So I decided to make it up. Warning: I tend to like to torturing my favorite characters. I dunno why. I just do.

A tall woman with long black hair that reached her back sat down at the dark brown, lacquered kitchen table in her three-bedroom apartment. Her cold, two-toned gold eyes scanned the newspaper in her hands. She scowled and her face twisted with disgust, an expression she wore often. The woman was so upset with picture on the front of the newspaper, that she slammed the knife she had been previously eating with, into the table.

"Why is the newspaper always full of that damn Shinigami?" She snarled. The woman crumpled the newspaper and shoved it into the opaque blue trash can located next to the white and black granite sink. "It's always Shinigami this and Shinigami that. He's not the only Shinigami; I'm here too." The woman smiled cruelly. "And so is his son, but I guess Shinigami remains to be unaware of that little detail." The woman barked out a sound that resembled laughter.

"A-ano, Okaa-san?" The small voice of a small, five-year-old boy interrupted the woman's rant. The boy had the same golden eyes, but where his mother's were cold and cruel, his were innocent and scared. He also had the same dark black hair as his mother, but his was marred by three white stripes on the left side of his hair.

"What do you want?" The mother looked at her child the same way she had looked at the newspaper. She hated him, or 'it' as she called him, for she hadn't given the boy a name. She didn't think he deserved a name. He was that person's child. Shinigami. But of course, Shinigami did not know this, because she had run off while still pregnant and refused to tell him. She wouldn't let Shinigami have his son; it was her property. And if she couldn't take revenge on Shinigami himself, she'd take revenge on his son.

"Well, I was just wondering, if maybe, maybe, I could go, um, to school?" The boy stuttered out the question he had been building his courage all week to ask.

For a moment, the woman just stared at him, then she erupted into another fit of what sounded like laughter. "You? Go to school? Do you know what they'd say if someone like you went to school?" The woman rose from her chair, towering over the small boy. The boy cringed and took a step back when his mother took a step towards him. "They'd call you a freak, because that's exactly what you are. They would all hate you because no one could ever like a thing like you." The woman rushed forward suddenly, closing the three foot gap between her and her son before he could move. She violently grabbed the child's right arm and yanked him even closer. Then, she drew her hand back and slapped him. The child didn't cry out, as he was used to this kind of treatment, but a look of regret was etched onto his face. The woman shoved the boy down, his head thumped against the kitchen floor, causing him go a bit dizzy before his mother kicked him.

"I'm sorry," The boy apologized.

"Oh you're sorry? Well sorry doesn't cut it. You know what they'd do if they saw something as disgusting as yourself?" The woman went back to the table and wrenched the knife out of the table. She snatched her son's arm again as he was getting up. She relished the fear she saw in the boy's eyes just before she plunged the knife into his upper arm with the same force she'd used on the table. Blood spattered everywhere and the knife dug deep into skin, scraping bone. At this, the small boy let out a muffled cry of pain and tried to yank himself free. His mother tore the knife out as she let go of her son, letting him fall to the ground, clutching his heavily bleeding arm.

"Get out of my sight!" The woman screamed, enraged. The boy didn't need to be told twice; he stumbled to his feet and ran back into his room. "Ugh," The woman muttered, having calmed down a bit once the boy was gone. "I need to make sure that thing doesn't bother me and stays in its room so I can enjoy the rest of my evening." She tossed the knife in the sink and walked towards her son's room.

The little boy looked up with surprise and slight horror when his mother came in; he had been busy bandaging his arm with the first-aid kit he always kept in his room.

"Wipe that stupid look off your face. You're pathetic." Before he could properly finish bandaging his arm, the boy was snatched up by his mother and carried toward the radiator at on corner of his room. She took the handcuffs that were already on the radiator and handcuffed the other end to his injured arm. She then left the boy and closed the door behind her.

The toddler pulled lightly at the handcuffs; he knew better than to try and pull it loose; he had already turned his wrist raw dozens of times in trying before. He leaned against the radiator and sighed. If there was one thing he had plenty of, thinking time was it. He thought about lots of things. He thought about how he wished he could live the lives of the children he'd read about in his books. He thought about what it be like to go to school. He thought about what children his age might be doing right now, elsewhere. He thought of Shibusen, which he learned about through books. And he thought about his father. What was his father doing right now? He had once heard his mother mention the Shinigami was his father. Shinigami, the great death god and ruler of Death city, was his father. So why was he stuck where he was now? Why couldn't he be with his father? What was his father even like? The boy knew that his mother hated Shinigami. His mother blamed everything on Shingami, including her treatment towards him.

Other than that, the boy didn't know much about his father. He knew his father was Death. So if his father was Death, then what did that make him? Little Kid Death? Death the Little Kid? Death the Kid?

Death the Kid?

Yes, the boy decided he rather liked this name. Death the Kid. Really, he would've liked any name, if someone would just give him one. But if no one would, he'd give himself one. He didn't really need anyone else anyway. The boy was different, he was a freak. He was different from the other children he'd read about in books. All those children, the normal children, had someone who cared about them. But he was different. He didn't someone to care about him, but then again, the boy decided, he didn't really need anyone. He could take care of himself, and he could certainly give himself a name. A different name for a child who was different. Death the Kid. What an unusual name, perfect for a freak.

Arg! No matter how many times I go over a story, it always comes out seeming rushed. Well, sorry if you thought this was a suckish waste of your time, but I just really wanted to write it. Reviews, flames, or whatever are welcome!