Welcome to The Wammy's House Boys. Notice the M rating. There will be heavy violence, gore, swearing, dark themes, and sexual content. There will be homosexuality, bisexuality, heterosexuality, yandere-ness, tsundere-ness, and pretty much any other romantic complication you can think up. Some of the pairings will be as follows: BB/L, Matt/Mello, Near/Mello, Mello/Linda, Mello/Lidner…and probably some others that I'm forgetting. Many of my views on homosexuality and theology will be here as well. IF ANY OF THE ABOVE OFFENDS YOU, please turn back now and don't flame me ;).

Whew! Now that that's over with, I can finally start the story! Without further ado, I give you The Wammy's House Boys!

I will never forget that day.


...No, no matter how long I live; no amount of time will dull the images that have been burned so thoroughly into my memory. The day I saw my mother die.

Ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I? Here I am, spoiling the best part of the story, without even performing the basic courtesy of introducing myself.

My name is-or rather, was- Rue Ryuuzaki, though most of you will probably know me better as Beyond Birthday, the serial killer behind the infamous LA BB Murder Cases.

Here I go, getting ahead of myself again. I'd best get on with the story before I bore you all to death before I even remember what I ought to be telling you.

As I said, I was born Rue Ryuuzaki, to a beautiful Japanese woman by the name of Kotone Ryuuzaki. She had deep blue eyes and long, shiny black hair that was always soft to touch. She raised me alone- my father had left us.

Now, before any of you go getting the wrong idea, let me assure you right here that my mother and father were very much in love with each other, and I only ever heard my mother speak kind words about him. They had not separated because they wanted to at all- on the contrary; they were forced to separate against their will.

Now, I did not have ordinary parents, anymore than I had an ordinary childhood. For starters, my eyes, as most know, are blood red- the eyes of a Shinigami.

My father's eyes...

She said to be proud of them…that they were nothing to be ashamed of…

If you are reading this, I have no doubt that you already know that there is a law in the Shinigami world banning Shinigami from engaging in sexual relations- either with humans, or with one another. To do so would result in execution of behalf of the guilty Shinigami. My father was well aware of this, but he threw all caution to the wind when he fell in love with my mother, and she with him.

Now, I know that you're thinking: Shinigami are ugly, vile creatures. How could anyone love something like that?" the answer to that, my friends, is simple: love is blind. If you truly, deeply love someone, then it doesn't matter what they look like. That certainly holds true in this case.

Love…to have the one you love… love you back…I wonder what that feels like?

From this point onward, I must ask the reader to kindly forgive any lapses in my storytelling, as my memory is less than perfect at the moment.

Their meeting was a highly unorthodox one, to say the very least. My father, the Shinigami known as Rue, was stalking my mother with the intent to kill her for her lifespan. But, as he was reaching for his notebook, it fell from his grasp and hit the ground with a loud thump!

My mother turned around and picked the notebook up. She was instantly able to see the hideous creature before her. But she was not afraid. No, quite the opposite. She was friendly, even playful, as if it were no surprise that a God of Death was looking her right in the eyes.

Embarrassed, my father offered to take the notebook back and forget that the whole thing had ever happened. My mother immediately refused, much to his chagrin. So, he was forced to follow her as she went about her day-to-day life. She never used the notebook; in fact, she was more than willing to let Rue use it to stay alive. Needless to say, he was interested in this human. She was pretty, smart, and unafraid of him.

It didn't take him long to fall in love with her. It took a little longer, however, for my mother to reciprocate the feelings.

And that's when it happened. They only sinned together once-one night which I can only guess was filled with passion and purest ecstasy. But once was more than enough. My father was killed for his so-called crime. And, two months later, my mother discovered that she was pregnant.

She never married. She never even dated another man. Her family scorned her, and relatives constantly enquired about the identity of the father of her child. To escape this, she moved away from Japan, to a quiet, small town in England.

From the very day I was born, she made no secret to me about who my father was, and I thought nothing of it. I thought it was normal. Or, at the very least, I didn't think it was wrong. Only that mother said I mustn't tell anyone about it.

I was a good boy…I listened to my mommy…

During this time, we had a neighbor who was prone to random fits of rage and paranoia. I'm afraid that I can no longer remember his name. Every time I passed his house, he pointed and called me the Devil's child, devil boy.

I told my mother about this, and she became frightened, wondering if he knew her secret. Despite this, he took no action against us, and life went on as usual until my fifth birthday.

That day…the day that I will never forget…

I was playing in my room with my toys, as small children do. Then, I heard pounding. The front door opened. Raised voices.

An earth-shattering, blood-curdling scream. I jumped up and ran in to see what was the matter. The screams continued, rising in pitch and volume.

I found my mother and the neighbor in the kitchen. My mother was covered in blood, the neighbor stabbing her through continuously with a knife.

"Take this, you bitch!" he spat. "You demon whore! You slut!"

"Mommy, no!" I screamed. The man looked at me, a maniacal gleam in his eyes.

"Watch this, devil boy," he said, smiling wickedly. I was frozen in abject fear, and the most primal terror.

I don't…wanna die…please, don't kill me! I don't wanna die!

"Watch as your whore of a mother dies. She'll go to Hell, where she'll whore for Satan for all eternity!"

He cackled. He was truly mad.

"You're next, devil boy!"

"NO!" I shrieked. He came up to me with the blood-soaked butcher knife. He got me, once, through the right forearm. To this day, I have a deep scar there, a painless reminder of a past full of heartache.

I don't know how I did it. I'm not even sure what I did. But, somehow, I got the knife away from the man. I turned it around, cutting my own hands in the process. Then, I stabbed my attacker.



…Seven times.

Blood dripped from the knife.

My hands.

His body.

It pooled onto the white tile floor, staining my shirt, tainting the wooden cabinets as it sprayed everywhere.

When both grownups were completely lifeless before me, I dropped the knife, suddenly aware of what I had done. I fell to the floor and screamed, crying tears that seemed to flow without end.

Evidently, someone had heard the screams and called the police. But they were too late to save my mother.

Too late to save me. I was broken beyond repair. Broken beyond repair on my own birthday. My cake had never been put in the oven. The decorations still hung around the house.

The police took me to a hospital. I stayed there for an indeterminate period of time in a nearly comatose state. Eventually, I don't know when, I began to emerge. The police asked me what happened. I told them, with many tears and much hysterics, that the man had killed my mother, and I had killed him in order to protect myself.

Two elderly men were conversing with a doctor, who seemed happy. To this day, I do not know the cause of that smile.

One of the men approached me.

He called himself Roger.

He asked me many pointless questions I cannot be bothered to recall.

He talked to the other man.

He called him Quillsh.

He told me to call him Watari.

I was taken to a manor house, where some other children were playing in the sunlit grounds, or else reading in the shade of the oak trees. It had a melancholy, but not unpleasant feel to it. I instantly felt at home there.

The old men told me to pick a new name for myself. A code name, I guess you could call it.

A new name…a new name for a new life…

Broken beyond repair on my own birthday.

"…Beyond," I said slowly. "Beyond Birthday."

Wow…writing for Beyond is disturbing…but it's only gonna get worse…anyway, please review!