Family above all. That's what Oswald Flynn was taught in the entirety of his life.
Despite this, the Flynn family was something to be never considered above all. Left behind at the age of two by his father, the young Oswald spent his early years with a single mother in a quite poor environment, constantly at odds with money and society.
At the age of seven, Oswald was given to an orphanage to be adopted; to help easing the burden his mother was carrying. He still remembers her words at that time.
'Stay strong and God shall notice your strength’.
So he did. Each and every night when everyone was asleep, Oswald prayed; each and every day he showed no weakness.
That's what Oswald Flynn was taught in his entire life from birth to a certain point from which this rule meant little anymore.
Despite the rule, the Flynn family lacked a father, it was only the young Oswald and his mother whom he stood very close to and that was perfectly enough.
She would always be there for her son, she would always protect and take care of him, she would always... Do anything for her 'precious little boy’. There was no one else Oswald could have trusted more.
Which marked the young boy’s upcoming ages in advance.
Growing up rather poor, only with a mother and socially awkward had never been easy. Enduring the constant, daily bullying was something that required time, patience and strong will.
Time, that he had plenty. Patience, not so much. Strong will, absolute zero. He was but a broken kid with nothing but a mother to lose.
Psychiatrists say, around those ages did his mind develop paranoid personality disorder as well as narcissistic personality disorder due to Mrs Flynn’s method of talking highly about her son to keep a fragment of his confidence afloat instead of letting it fall to pieces.
She would always say, 'don't worry about the other mean kids, Oswald. You're my wonderful, unique little boy’. She thought it would help, little did the poor thing knew the words would lead to a disorder.
At that time, everyone was but an enemy, someone who would only harm the socially awkward kid. At that time, his mind developed something else other than DPP and NPD. It was something endlessly mundane, something what only made little difference next to both symptoms. That something was limping.
There were no reasons for this actions, no explanations. Well, nothing what Oswald knew of. However, it was not a constant form of movement either – seemingly only occurred once he had suddenly forgotten of himself.
They say, there's always something good within all the bad but life isn't a fairy tale. Except maybe for some occasions.
There was that day when a fragment of the young Oswald's soul was taken from the rest by someone other than his mother.
That day, someone simply sat next to him, dragging him out of his usual melancholy by a mere presence.
That was the day something new was born. Something neither of them had before.
A friendship with no other than Henry Prince.
They were called the 'weird boyfriends’ by others whom witnessed the friends’ bonding. No wonder. There was something with both of them, something neither of them could wrap their fingers around. The two 'antisocials’ got along well and that was what mattered.
Then, something changed. Years happened, they grew up, Oswald’s mother died and he isolated himself so much in fact, he refused to keep contact even with the only remaining person in his life.
Those were the years when the young, broken adult heard the voices first. The great good had not only spoken to him but appeared and he found a meaning again. Little did he know his mind began playing a trick, the third symptom, namely hallucinogen persisting perception disorder.
Years went by, the 'greater good’ began gaining more and more influence, forcing Oswald to commit sacrifices in his name.
Up until by an unlucky event he was brought to a therapist and labelled sick.
Then the journey to the Whisperwind asylum began.
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They say, some always remember their first murder.
Some suffer from it, some don't. Then again some already think forward and plan the next crime.
The thirteen-year-old Oswald Flynn is closest to the second group, although sometimes he would wake with nightmares. That kid deserved it, he tells himself. Of course he did, a voice would always agree. Then, an another would always ask if his mother would be proud. No. No, she would not be. But she does not know about yesterday, he only told her the good things, majority of them were bits of this new friendship he is having. Mother smiled then, sharing her happy thoughts on the matter.
She doesn't need to know about that day, she doesn't need to know how his temper got the better of him, she doesn't need to know what kind of animalistic instincts kicked in at that exact moment, she doesn't need to know how did blood stick to her son’s hands for the first time.
She doesn't need to know how much he enjoyed giving someone what they deserve.
It could have been around the afternoon but he doesn't quite remember.
There could have been a group of kids, friends, actually, three or four of them. And him. Alone at this time.
They could have been picking on him, as usual. They probably were, in fact. They could have been not only picking but beating, he doesn't remember. He cannot remember the little details, just a few of them. Little images tend to flash in from a certain point.
Actually, he is rarely capable of focusing to those little images.
It's winter, the boy is laying in the snow on his side, watching as the blood coming from his nose and mouth paints the white to crimson. Legs are pulled to his stomach in attempt to curl up the best way possible. Everything hurts, the voices coming from above him are distant, no words can be recognised, only hardly. Then, the next quite sharp pain comes from his head, sending said pain all the way down on his body.
‘So, how do you like that, freak?’
Blue eyes then flicker from the crimson blood to the boy’s physique who is currently crouching to look him in the eye – to laugh. They are looking in each other’s eyes now. The boy is grinning, unlike him.
Frozen, shaking hands reach out, grappling for the boy’s coat who is apparently way too busy or way too naïve to pay attention.
Finally, fingers curl around the coat’s fabric, they practically hook in it, having no intentions to let go. With the sudden arrival of some strength, the boy is pulled down into the snow, his head bashed against the ground, the strongest way possible. Blood is boiling, rushing like mad, the voices are distant, so are the other boys. Nothing is cold anymore, not hands, nor legs, nor fingers. Everything is alive.
Said fingers dug in the snow, finding a bigger rock, clutching at it madly. The soon-to-be victim still seems like somewhat struggling but he is on the move, ready to return the bash his head just gotten.
Animal instincts kick in once again, only this time they mix with panic and Oswald is doing his best to move backward, to catch a breath.
Now. Now. Now. Now. Now. Now. The voices begin chanting at this point in the cruellest way, causing him to stop crawling backward. They push him instead, forward, relentlessly. A sound, a growl -something he had never found himself doing before -, now sliced the cold air and with it, the raven haired boy threw himself at the other kid, once again doing his best to keep him down. The rock holding hand then raised. An animalistic grin, never seen before curls upon the cold, thin lips.
One. Two. Three. Fourfivesixseveneight.
All the times the rock collided with the bully’s skull, faster with each hit.
The snow isn't white anymore. The boy isn't laughing anymore, he isn't joking around, he is just... Laying.
It's Oswald who is laughing instead – freely, without regret. No regret, no thoughts, no worries – nothing. He is even taking a little time, facing the body.
Finally, the thirteen-year-old boy managed to stumble upon his feet prior wiping the blood off his nose.
Leaving everything behind.
