He'd woken up too early again.

It was difficult to say just why he had had a hard time sleeping as of late. Sometimes it was because of the noises outside, the scuffling of the other student's footsteps as they made their way around the modest, neatly kept rooms they inhabited within the Academy. Other times it was because he would dream of darkness - though this was not an unusual occurrence. Requiem Driscoll's heart was black, after all. That is what he believed, and though growing up his parents often tried to convince him otherwise, he did not agree with them. A nod and a low, noncommittal murmur was all it took to get them to leave him alone, satisfied that they had convinced their son of his worth.

They were good people, but they did not understand. How could they, anyway? They were not like him; could never be like him.

It was not the words of his parents that had comforted Requiem when he felt as if he were drowning; suffocating within his own breath, unable to claw his way free of the dark desires that clenched at his heart, grappled with his own body. They were soothing, perhaps...but not comforting. And Requiem did not need them. He cared for his parents greatly, but they were unlike him in so many ways.

Sometimes he let his thoughts wander too much and too far. There were times when Requiem simply sat and thought; thought about what life might have been like had he been an actual human. Did they feel what he did? After all, he was in a human body, of course, with human hands and human feet and hair and fingers. He held all of the appearance of a human, but he lacked a human soul, a human heart. The life that flowed through him was purely Majin; the electrifying blood of magic making up the rest of what had once been a human body.

He was human in appearance, perhaps, but not in mind. And not even his parents could find a way to comfort him about that.

No, it was in music that he found solace, that he found a way to let the burning heat of his blackened cravings slowly ebb away like the tides of the sea. The notes, the chords, the way the lyrics smoothed into his skin and flowed through his veins like blood and water was what comforted him, made him feel more at peace with himself, even if it was only for a small amount of time. Sometimes it would only last for mere moments; other times for days. The way his fingers itched for the porcelain keys of a piano, his ears longing for the relief and warmth of the music, however...that lasted an eternity. He had a low voice, a gruff voice, one that was meant for baritone notes and the rare raspy songs, and his playing of the violin was mediocre, at best, but it was with the piano that he excelled; it was when his fingers brushed against the cold smoothness, to cause crisp, clear notes to emit from such an odd instrument.

The music did not need him, but he needed the music.

Requiem did not need people, and he especially did not need humans; not when they would look at him with such scathing dislike in their eyes, such wary apprehension as if he were going to do something to them at any moment. He had long since grown used to the way they moved to the other side of the hallway as he passed, the way even his own relatives had tended to avert their eyes from him. It no longer angered him; rather it tired him sometimes, but for the most part Requiem did not particularly bother to care anymore.

Here at the Makai Royal Academy, Requiem stayed mostly by himself. His dorm room was private, by request, so he did not have the added stress of a dormmate to fray his already fragile nerves even more, nor did he have his parents constant fretting. He could relax here; sit alone in the sparsely decorated room and do his work without being disturbed.

This particular morning, Requiem was not as tired as he should have been, especially since the sun had not yet risen fully. The sky was still a dark umber color, the barest hints of lavender and orange beginning to show in the east, behind the smeary greyish blue clouds. The soft twittering of birds could be heard in the trees, light fluttering of wings, and a single feather drifted against the window of Requiem's room. He watched it float, pressed against the glass before a small breeze dragged it off.

The room was quiet. Requiem, still in bed, closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.

Another day is beginning.