I didn't edit this
"I'm Evan! Evan Rosier. Rosie!" His enthusiasm was met with blank stares. "I don't know why I said that. No one calls me Rosie." Suddenly, Evan took a great interest in the new scuff marks on his shoes.
All was silent for a moment. The chatter hadn't quite ceased as much as faded away, leaving a silence that was purely the absence of noise.
A strong hand gripped Evan's chin. A hand smeared with ink and, if he wasn't mistaken, dried blood.
Now at eleven years old, Evan Rosier, not known as Rosie, had rarely seen a smidge of blood. Sparse drops, perhaps, from papercuts and scraped knees but nothing more.
That day was the beginning of a long, deceptively bloody, school year.
The face belonging to the hand that held him in such a grip, was square and scraped and scarred. It smiled with its eyes, shocking green, and it's teeth, sharp as you'd picture for a dog. It's nose, crooked as if broken one time too many, was gushing blood like a waterfall in Hell's capital city.
Such blood dropped into the grinning mouth, coating it's teeth a desturbing reddish brown.
But it was smiling.
That was something.
"Rosie." It said. "I'm Barty."
