D6// Robin Keeni

shad·ow (noun) shade or comparative darkness.

A shadow was numerous things taken in many different senses. If you took a look at a dictionary like the one Robin typically held between his fingertips, you'd find definition upon definition of the word. But the common theme of darkness interwove in between each little blurb, shadow was dark, a shadow was something that cast darkness in a time of light. The same could be said about the small boy who clutched an old, wrinkled, crumbled dictionary in his tight grip. Darkness in the light.

Upon looking at Robin, you'd notice nothing particularly special, nothing too out of the ordinary, just enough to be normal. He was normal, at least by looking at him, one would think so. Stringy brown hair falls just above his eye, slightly covering the tips of his eyes taunting the drown him in a sea of darkness should it ever grow anymore, but he never let it did. The teasing hair was almost like a permanent reminder of the dark he could fall into, a constant. His hair was a constant in his life, with it's dark brown shade, threatening also to turn black at any moment, but it never did. Under cared and stringy, his hair barely passed for normal with a thin layer of grease covering the surface. His dark brown eyes also always threatened to turn black at any times, soon enough he'd dive into the world of the shadows and would never return, slowly but surely he was getting there and no one could rescue him from the monster he'd become.

He was frail to say the least. If you would go about asking Robin, he'd say that he was just slender. Years of slipping through windows and crouching in dark areas had lead to him having an extremely flexible body, near the level of a gymnast, though he really never could do the splits or anything or the sorts, he wasn't that spectacular. Slight abs peaked out of his stomach, though it was more from being unreasonably skinny instead of actual ab workouts. Bordering on the line of 105 pounds, his ribs protrude from his stomach on his 5'3 frame.

His hands are his favourite part about himself. Lined with cuts and scrapes, they tell his story, the story of a boy whole stole everything in the night time. They'd been bathed in dirt, grime, gold, and even blood. The story of a raging kleptomaniac laid in his hands, they were what kept him from the shadows.

pe·cu·liar (adjective) strange; queer; odd: peculiar happenings.

There are many peculiar things in the surrounding world. There are also many peculiar people. Psychologists would always release those pamphlets and make those little announcements, the signs of a serial killer. There were no dead bodies in his closet. No souls crushed ever so slightly under the quick wrinkled hands, death was but an adventure he’d yet to steal away. Pamphlets of all shapes and sizes and of absurd and beyond normal people had been slipped into the hands of curious, worried people forever. Watch out for animal abuse, that was one. The first one in fact. There’d been a time where folded paper slipped through his worried fingers scrounging for any sign that he may be different. Was he bizarre?

Pamphlets slipping so quickly between his tired skin it would slice like a nice across the webs in between his quick fingers. Stashed away under rickety floorboards as if they’d never existed, they were hidden, they were not his. There was plenty of information on the bizarre, the different. Those who toyed dangerously lighting ablaze towns and trees and watched in awe as flames swallowed whole cities, a monster he’d never wanted to play with. He’d read information about people who sliced knives like the paper he sliced himself with to maim, and torture, and kill. Life’s hanging on the tips of blades, lives destroyed with one slick most of the wrist. It was ever so enticing, the whole ordeal, hands slipping in and taking something they’d never had the right to take. Exhilaration. It was a spell cast upon him, but no, lives wouldn’t be taken by his hands. But items would.

Peculiar. Like a patch of grass in a snow covered region, he was a golden apple in a tree of red, a different person than the rest. A boy who liked having things slip in between his fingertips that never belonged to him, the tingly sensations of rich objects of money and gold, something completely worthy and worth something, more than he'd ever been. He used to sleep tons, but as of late, z's would be stolen themselves into the night skulking about alleyways looking for open windows or open doors. A boy who couldn't be seen to the bare naked eye. He was a shadow in the pitch black, completely and utterly unnoticeable, that's what he always strived for. No one needed to notice him, he was alone in a big grand world, with no one but him and the items he slipped into large pockets. Thrill, exhiliration, and maybe someday they would catch him, his family, the peacekeepers, the capitol, and they would finally see that maybe he just a little bit peculiar.