The day was hot. It was the kind of day where all you wanted to do was curl up in front of your air conditioner that was on so high you needed a blanket. Anyone who went outside on that kind of day was either insane or was forced to.

                Everyone thought the soccer boy from the downtown orphanage was crazy. Each day, he was seen dribbling the same blue soccer ball up and down the front lawn. He didn’t stop until he had reached fifty laps. That day was no different.

                People scurried past to the sound of the incessant thumping. It maintained a steady rhythm and it was almost hypnotizing. The people just shook their heads and passed by without another thought other than, “That’s the crazy boy. He does what he wants.”

                The boy, at first glance, appeared normal. He looked no older than fourteen, and was tall for his age. His limbs were long and lanky, with his joints jutting out at sharp angles. His head was rather large for his body, and he walked with a sort of teetering motion as if he were top heavy. His hair was dark and cropped short in a simple, boyish cut. He had a small nose and a plump set of lips that turned up at the ends, making him look like he was paying tribute to the Mona Lisa with his weird half-smile. Last of all, he had large, unblinking eyes that stared right at you; they studied you, almost dissected you is you were caught in their gaze.

                Appearances can be deceiving; however, because, observed more closely, the boy was far from normal. As mentioned before, every day, the boy made fifty laps up and down the lawn with his blue soccer ball. He would not stop until he got to fifty, and if, for some horrible reason, he got interrupted, he would have to start all over again.

                He rarely spoke; when he did, it was in a deep, faraway, almost angry voice. He also used as few words as possible. When you spoke to him, he would look at you, but it was as if he didn’t really see you, as if he didn’t know you were there. He was often heard muttering to himself, seemingly random words spoken over and over again.

His favorite meaningless word was Red. Most of the time, especially during the times he wasn’t doing his laps, he would chant, “Red, Red. Very, Red, Red. Hot, Red, Red. Very, Red, Hot.”

                No one knew the reason behind these words, much less the meaning of them. The other orphans learned to ignore the boy whenever he was in the room, and the caretakers viewed him as a fragile, traumatized child. They basically allowed him the run of the lot, saying it would help with his psychological recovery. But after the boy had been living there almost ten years, their efforts were found notwithstanding.

                Ironically, after all of this, the boy had been named one of the most normal names possible and had one of the most common surnames. The obsessive compulsive boy with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was named Choi Minho.

mmkay, that's the first 'chapter' so to speak

it was the best place i could find to make it, otherwise it would have been uber long

anyway, i'll hold off on posting the next chapter until i get a few comments

lurves you gaisssss

~OTB out~