I took him to the alley where we had first become friends, as always the smell of blood and trash, even sweat was present beyond the misty and rustic once beautiful alleyway before it was defiled by many different minds, many different hands, and the spill of blood.

I touched the rod where I had lost the use of my left hand. It felt cold and slimy, like a lizard, but with a dent. The dent where my arm went at such a high velocity, it threw my shoulder out of its socket.

I nearly cried, I don't like to cry.

I saw him bend down into a pile of trash and dig something out. More dents on the wall, like bullet holes on a wall ravaged by war.

Whose head it was, we will never know, but I threw up right then and there.

We were fifteen and thirteen respectively, and nobody thought I would live to see the sky one last time. It was cold, and raining. The water collected on our skins, and made our clothes very heavy. But not heavy enough to withstand the hits and blows of an adult.

He was small back then, not very intimidating, or anything. Nobody thought much of him, only that He would occasionally get into fights... and lose. He was so much smaller and younger than the rest of us, but he led the class in scores.

As my arm flew back to hit the rod, I saw a blur of blue swinging around my father's head. I screamed in pain as it hit and slowly it rolled to the ground like water in a balloon, that was popped a while back.

My father stood up and retaliated. I closed my eyes and I was out for the rest of the week.

The first thing I saw was my grandmother, sitting next to me, but looking at another gurney. I was confused with the act.

"Grandma!" I sort of yelled. She made the quiet sign.

"This boy saved your life, and now he's okay, just sleeping it off. He said he would leave the hospital when you would leave."

"Then let's go now!"

She looked at him with the oddest look of affection.

"I would like to keep to his word."

So the most boring hours came following after that conversation, she watched as the kid breathed in and out like a child's diaphragm at sleep.

I think somebody woke me up. And I saw him just sitting there, silent, glaring always with those sky blue crystal eyes. It was like an endless abyss looking into them, but I saw scenes of hatred, torment and torture inside of them.

"Why do your eyes look so sad?" I asked.

"I don't know." Came the simple reply. His voice was still high as a childs.

"It's almost as if you're lost."

No reply here, my grandmother questioned him a little bit and held both of our hands to lead us out of the hospital.

"Shae, Dean's from America also. He actually immigrated here, just like you."

"Washington State." I said proudly, he sulked.

"Hawaii." He said plainly and I freaked out.

"I can't remember any of it." He added later on. And my grandmother stopped.

"How far does your memory go?" She asked.

"Last year." And we left the conversation at that.

His white shirt was getting extremely dirty from the grime that he was putting on it. He was thinner than I had imagined. And could hardly believe that such a meek child withstood a Yakuza member and fought back.

It was almost as if he were trying to smell his past back. Every item he picked up he smelled, just as a dog would to find the original scent.

He was a foot taller than me, and excelled at anything he did or tried to do. In a way I was envious, but he is such a kind friend. Though his sense of luck is warped. He always comes running with these incredibly ornate problems, or just the oddest ones. Like the time when we ate out for his birthday and competition celebration, he found out he was going to be wed in a year to this girl he can't stand.

I pushed a trash can back and saw where he had ended up in the end. The head had a dent that was about the same height as he was at the time.

He leaned back on a dumpster in such an odd position with the weirdest facial expression that I just had to take a picture of it. His face was covered in grime, and his shirt was also. It was near-skin tight, so it fit near-perfectly on his rigid body, while his sleeves went a little past his elbow in the same manner, only in black.

I hate and love the eyes that he has, they are beautiful, but so deadly, especially in a picture. It just entrances you and it's the only thing people really look at on him. And then his face in general. He was handsome, and pale. With natural brown hair.

Basically, he was smart, talented, handsome. Everybody envied him, but he had a bad personality as a young teen. Now there's no evidence (except when he fights occasionally) of the rough boy that was there when he was thirteen. Only a quiet, and skilled young adult stood in his feet.

I frowned at him and he just felt the hole.

"Did you lose your memories here?" I asked. He looked up and I took another picture.

I know, this isn't the time or place, but he acts so natural in these kinds of situations.

"No, it was before I moved here. In Hawaii."

I wanted to question him more but he touched the railing which I had lost my left arm to.

"Daichi, do you ever think, that we met up forareason. That there'ssomething that clicks in the futurebetweenus?"

I'm totally straight okay.

"As friends yeah."

"But maybe, my memorieshave something to do withusmeeting. Maybethere's something else thatwe should be worrying about, not ourselves."

Sometimes he confuses me, because in the fight he had lost a little bit of his verbal things. So he lisps now.

"I don't know."

He began to walk away.

"Sota, wait!"

He stopped.

"I think it has something to do with our parents, our past. It'll lead up to the future, maybe something really corny will happen to us, and we'll end up saving the world."

He smiled a toothy smile. It was really quite cute when he did that.

And the sad part is, what I said. Came true in a few weeks.