A/N Ladies and Gentlemen... I give you a Roxas-centric memior. Those who've read Phoenix Fanatic's may understand the unrelavent reference to her latest multi-chapter story. (Three Thousand Reviews, Pho! Congrats!)
1 288 words. Short oneshot. Warning: References to slash and foul homophobic language. Axel/Roxas. AU Canonverse.
I do not own Kingdom Hearts or any of the story line/characters associated with it. (Sometimes I wonder why the disclaimer is needed when I website is purely dedicated to "FanFiction".)
Concrit is much appreciated. Please enjoy. :)
So... I guess I lied to you. When I said I was happy. When I said I wasn't angry. When I said "I forgive you."
All lies, I suppose, if you look at it that way. I haven't forgiven so much as I've forgotten, and I'm angry at you for pretending it never happened so I had nothing to remember. You were lying on the ground and you were saying "I'm sorry" and…
But I guess I'm not angry about 'that', whatever 'that' was that I've long forgotten by now.
She tells me you hurt me. Hurt me in a way that physical pain can't. That pain I used to be so addicted to. That pain that came from the truth in my hands. You never did that to me. I gave myself these scars, the scars that really didn't run all that deep but refuse to completely fade all the same. I suppose I'm a little angry at me too. I did this, not you.
You didn't do that to me, because you're... you're...
My memory is selective and faulty. Facts get lost in the emotion of the moment, I see better with my eyes closed than open. When I speak a word out loud I see it floating before my eyes and I spell it one letter at a time. When I think of something mysterious I see colours and blocks and shapes that turn into visions that put the puzzle pieces together. It's all lies and you never believed in that stuff anyway, so I guess I should give it a break. Just like how you laughed at homosexuals and homo sapiens and I didn't think it was funny so I'd hit you but you'd just laugh and hold me close anyway. It was funny, back then. I loved your grin and I loved your laugh and I loved how you were like a perfect hybrid of I don't know what and were going to save the world. You never did end up doing that, actually... I suppose that's my fault, again.
Again.
An endless cycle of horseshoes that keep spinning. Like your…
Life… throwing your life in a slot machine, the next number you get is the next shit load you have to deal with. A game of cards against the rest of the world and you just hope, for once, you'll have the upper hand. Again. Againagainagain until you've run out of cards and the machine is empty and the horseshoe stops spinning. Your world stops spinning, stops turning. And when your world stops turning... Well, you die then, I guess. You just.... die.
You died. Not "you" because we both know I'm never going to get the chance to send this out so this might as well be a little Diary named… Doalm. Guess I'm getting Demyx's spacey-ness too, but you said I had that from the beginning.
You always won the card games anyway, or came second place, if you count Luxord. "Lucky number eight" you'd always say with that stupid grin. That stupid grin that'd make me want to kiss you almost as much as kick your ass. I'd say that means everyone must run out of luck at some point but I'm still here, aren't I? That's bullshit, actually. I'm only half as here as I used to be but I think that makes me more unlucky than you and them. The bit of me that is still here wishes I were dead… too…
But I don't want to die yet. I want to jump a little and laugh a little and spend my life with scraped knees and scars that tell adventures rather than sorry tales of bouts of depression I was too weak to conquer. But that's a lie, really. An echo of a past reflection, maybe. 'Past' being before 'then'. I small part of me shouting, but the riddle "If a tree falls in a forest and nobody hears it does it make a sound?" strikes true. I don't listen to that little voice anymore. Any of the voices, really. The others… I don't know if they just stopped talking or I just stopped listening. Rather confusing but simple, actually, if I bothered to think about it.
You said that when I was thinking too hard I'd get a weird expression on my face and forget about the world around me. Then you'd ruffle my hair and take me out for an ice cream and tell me not to worry so much, or I'd get permanent lines on my pretty little face, the faggot I am. You were closeted too and we both knew it and we both knew that you were everything you ever claimed to hate; everything you really hate and everything you are- were the same.
I'm forgetting again. But I remember how you'd take out a match and a cancer stick and puff out sweet poetry for me into the sky, one letter at a time. One letter at a time until I felt so peaceful I started crying and you'd kiss me better. There were always the pauses, the ones where you'd pull away and tell me that you were straight and you hated little faggots like me but it wasn't long before you'd be kissing me again, wiping my tears and singing soft lullabies until I fell asleep in your arms. When I'd wake up you'd still be there with the cancer stick in your mouth but with no more letters in the sky. I was okay with that, though. All thirty-one times.
Then there was that last time… that was so much different. You were puffing out cancer sticks but we were both silent because we knew I was going to leave, no lullabies or alphabets could change my mind. Not minutes before you had tried to stop me by force, fire in hands and sweat pouring into your eyes. But I held truth in my outstretched palms and you knew what it meant. I knew you wouldn't hold me tonight, no matter how much we both wanted it, because I was walking away. I was walking away and you told me they'd destroy me, but I said no one would miss me. Then you said you would and puffed three dangerous words into the air that would have stopped me eight hours before. We both knew you were eight hours too late, so I kept walking.
But I had carved four words into the ground in front of you that you didn't see until I was out of your sight. I know it because I heard you scream.
The sky isn't that light blue anymore, though I still stand on the hill where you wrote pretty poetry in the sky. The sky is dark blue and black but I can't really tell because my thoughts are colour blind now that you're gone.
You died at 8:08am on the thirteenth of August. We both knew that eight was never your number, and you were never a morning person.
Thinking back now, you would never expect your favourite little faggot to cheat on you like this, huh? I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not. I'm leaving your ghost for a man called Mercy in the form of truth in my outstretched palms. Maybe I'll meet you there, where ever you are. In the end, I wasn't really the one who left, it was you. I know you don't like her, but she honestly tried to stop me. Don't worry though, I'll be there soon. Stupid thing to say, of course you're not worried, you're dead.
I am too.
Sayonara, Axel. May we both burn in Hell.
I love you too.