Always Alone
Nov 13, 2003 3:18:49 GMT
Post by Dai Kaiōshin on Nov 13, 2003 3:18:49 GMT
As the sun set over Generica and the rowdy festivities of the day, the complex retired for the night. On the fifth floor of the hotel, everything was peacefully silent. One by one, every light on the fifth floor turned off. All except for one, where a black clad fighter felt his hands over the curtains. Indigo felt the heavy cloth one last time for listening devices before pulling them tightly closed, abruptly stopping the flow of moonlight that poured through the crack.
He walked slowly over to the bathroom mirror and stared into it until he lost all sense of being. He tried to see through to the ice blue eyes that hid themselves behind the dark visor, until he found his right hand reaching to his chin, pulling off the dark visage. He tossed the mask onto the bed, and fixed his eyes upon it in a long gaze, holding a disturbed look as if he'd pulled off his own skin and was looking at it lying limply upon the mattress. He shook the thought and stared back into the glass, where his icy eyes greeted him coldly, soulless, expressionless. He felt his cheek as if to confirm this was really him. The hand in the mirror ran slowly down to his chin before falling off his face. He'd worn the mask for so long, he'd forgotten it wasn't his true face. And as he stared into his own real eyes, he was overcome with emptiness.
This was not the life he wanted. But he had had it for so long he wasn't sure what else there was to want. Everyday was fighting; everyday was violence; everyday was killing. Each day was a fight to survive to the next; each day there were orders, and he carried them out. His soul took pleasure in pleasing others, or so he thought. Now, staring into his own eyes, he realized he never was truly happy. He was their pawn: The officers, the generals, the King. They gave him respect when they saw him, acting as if they were truly in awe of his power. They treated him like a friend. But only like a man treats his dog-- a tool-- an animal for entertainment, for laughs.
He couldn't pin the feeling welling inside him. Emotions were not part of his training-- they were to be suppressed. But without feeling he only felt emptiness. And the void filled his body until he felt he lost his body, and he found himself on his knees, his face buried in the softness of the bed.
The shock of falling there must have woken him up. He came to and lifted his face from the comforter. Yet looking down upon the imprint of where his face had rested, something was different. He ran his finger over a dark spot where his eyes had been. He dwelled upon an unfamiliar thought for a moment, staring deeply into the puddle, as another tear gently spilled.
He tried to hold them back. This wasn't right. This wasn't what warriors did. But nothing was right. He was no warrior. He was only a boy. A boy whose childhood was stolen from him. A boy who was betrayed by the grown-ups he'd trusted. The thoughts tortured him. The blood stained through the bandages. The feelings overwhelmed him. He gave in, burying his face in his hands, crying himself to sleep on his knees, his body half sprawled on the bed.
He walked slowly over to the bathroom mirror and stared into it until he lost all sense of being. He tried to see through to the ice blue eyes that hid themselves behind the dark visor, until he found his right hand reaching to his chin, pulling off the dark visage. He tossed the mask onto the bed, and fixed his eyes upon it in a long gaze, holding a disturbed look as if he'd pulled off his own skin and was looking at it lying limply upon the mattress. He shook the thought and stared back into the glass, where his icy eyes greeted him coldly, soulless, expressionless. He felt his cheek as if to confirm this was really him. The hand in the mirror ran slowly down to his chin before falling off his face. He'd worn the mask for so long, he'd forgotten it wasn't his true face. And as he stared into his own real eyes, he was overcome with emptiness.
This was not the life he wanted. But he had had it for so long he wasn't sure what else there was to want. Everyday was fighting; everyday was violence; everyday was killing. Each day was a fight to survive to the next; each day there were orders, and he carried them out. His soul took pleasure in pleasing others, or so he thought. Now, staring into his own eyes, he realized he never was truly happy. He was their pawn: The officers, the generals, the King. They gave him respect when they saw him, acting as if they were truly in awe of his power. They treated him like a friend. But only like a man treats his dog-- a tool-- an animal for entertainment, for laughs.
He couldn't pin the feeling welling inside him. Emotions were not part of his training-- they were to be suppressed. But without feeling he only felt emptiness. And the void filled his body until he felt he lost his body, and he found himself on his knees, his face buried in the softness of the bed.
The shock of falling there must have woken him up. He came to and lifted his face from the comforter. Yet looking down upon the imprint of where his face had rested, something was different. He ran his finger over a dark spot where his eyes had been. He dwelled upon an unfamiliar thought for a moment, staring deeply into the puddle, as another tear gently spilled.
He tried to hold them back. This wasn't right. This wasn't what warriors did. But nothing was right. He was no warrior. He was only a boy. A boy whose childhood was stolen from him. A boy who was betrayed by the grown-ups he'd trusted. The thoughts tortured him. The blood stained through the bandages. The feelings overwhelmed him. He gave in, burying his face in his hands, crying himself to sleep on his knees, his body half sprawled on the bed.