A/N: Quick author's note. Touching up this chapter-it's been over 5 years since I first published this story. I had been so fascinated with this idea and experiment that I didn't take the time to edit before I hit submit. Taking the time now that I'm dedicating more thought to this to focus on the worst offenders. My goal is to minimize the poor grammar, spelling, and facepalm word choices I had first published those many years ago.

Please enjoy and R&R when you get the chance. New chapter will be up soon.


1.
I Know Me Best

Look, I'll make this short, sweet, and to the point; you can't even begin to comprehend the hell that shook my world until you know what I've done, what kind of person I used to be, and what kind of people shaped who I am. I'll just highlight the important bits because I don't feel like going into detail about it all.

They used to call me cowlick, daredevil, tomboy-anything that might discourage me the slightest bit. They said I was different, crazy even. (Was it really my fault? I thought that everyone heard the voices I heard-I guess I was wrong about that one.) I can't say I blame them though, it's just human instinct-to blow any stupid little insignificance, any tiny bit of eccentricity out of proportion until it actually appears to make a difference. When it boils down to it, none of that matters-I can explain everything; you won't get a better description of Jalen Zhu anywhere else, see-I know me best.

Then, I had short hair above my shoulders. See, I'm not quite prone to change so it's still midnight black as it was then, although now, it's falls thick and full down my back. Most days I'd come home from work at the factory all sweaty and exhausted to a point of apathy; I'd sweep my three-inch long bangs to either side of my forehead in a puff of exasperation and forget about them for the rest of the evening. So sure, I guess there's a bit of justice in the nickname "cowlick."

After work most days, the other kids and I would meet up under the big oak tree on the hilltop to play truth or dare-our favorite pastime was my one opportunity to shine, my stage and spotlight. I never turned a dare down no matter how ridiculous the feat. In fact, I remember this one time silly Johny Tadliem dared me to jump from the highest tower in our quiet little Kalm Town to the canopy roof of the melon cart below. He had such fiery challenge burning in his eyes as he threatened my championship "daredevil" title. Naturally, and quite stubbornly, I took up the challenge.

I climbed up the full five flights of stairs of that clock tower at a glacial pace, trembling to myself all the while. As I stood at the top, knees knocking against themselves, I saw the melon cart directly below me, but more importantly, I saw Johny Tadliem smirking in glee. That was the only motivation I needed. Without another thought, I climbed over the railing and propelled myself into the air.

And as I jumped I got caught up in that mid air turn for just one second-but that second was all it took for me to forgot about the dare, forget about the title, and think, as I caught a rare glimpse at the vast green horizon beyond the enclosed fences of our little town, what if I could fly away right now? You may think, now there's a strange thing to wonder when you've jumped hard enough to defy the weight of the air for just a second, but that's just how I functioned-always thinking about the next big thing.

Well, gravity got a hold of me anyway, as it usually does, and I went crashing through the nylon roof of the cart, splattered in fruity juices of all colors of the rainbow. The next thing I remember was standing up covered in everything from honeydew to watermelon in triumph; I listened to my peers cheering wildly for me, then passed out.

One broken leg, twenty two stitches, and countless safety lectures later, news of my idiotic feat spread across the town like wildfire. Soon enough, none of the girls in town would talk to me..they thought I was too reckless, too unlady-like, and thus, I got absorbed into the guys' group. No big deal. The whole thing had only two long term affects; first, I have an enormous fear of heights, and second, at very random moments in my life, I'm reminded of the sweet fragrance of honeydew. I think I'm okay with the second one-it's nice to be walking down the street and suddenly be immersed in a sweet honeydew ambiance. I guess this makes all three of the nicknames accurate, huh? But I'm not crazy.

Sure, I used to hang out with the guys, but eventually my hormones kicked in: his name was Martin Holts. He was brilliant, handsome, and funny, all rolled into one. Too good to be true? You wish. That was my Martin, my one and only. I'd do anything for him as I knew he'd do for me. He used to always pick me for his only team member in those idiotic guy versus guy wrestling competitions at the top of the hill. I wasn't as tough as some of them, but I was fast. I'd be so honored I'd put my own flesh and blood on that line just so that Martin and I could be crowned winners with circlets of twigs and daisies (still pretty good if you consider the limited flexibility of the twelve year old imagination). Anyway, Martin would have my back no matter what and together we'd always own the other teams.

However, it was his fault, Martin's. For everything. I did it all for him. He doesn't know. Not at all. He doesn't know what hell I suffered with him in mind, for him and his glowing smile. All his fault.

I remember that one day some four years later, the same little Johny who'd dared me to jump onto the melon cart (except many inches rounder), challenged me again to what he claimed to be indisputably impossible. Especially for me, he said, being a girl and all.

"I dare you," he'd started, a familiar mischievous glare in his eyes. I rolled mine to the sky-he'd been trying to deface me in front of Martin since day one. You could say Martin and I were "sparking" at the time, which basically meant every so often we'd spend time away separate from the boys just to sit at the top of the hill and watch the stars mingle with midnight clouds. Yeah, I'm a tomboy and I can be romantic too, but that's not the point. Johny, who'd been Martin's friend since who-knows-when was jealous. He'd do anything in his power to bring me down, so this was nothing new, "to become a first class SOLDIER."

"Aw, come on, Johny," Martin fought in my defense. "What's that gonna do for any of us? You don't have to listen to him, Jalen. He's just messing with all of us." I thought about it. This was my title. I wasn't just going to let go of this because I'm a girl and girl's aren't supposed to be admitted to SOLDIER. I mean back then reputations were a big thing. Submit once to the norm, and suddenly you're a conformist; turn down a dare once, and suddenly I was a wimp. I wouldn't have it. Another little bit on my mind was that Martin would be pleased, impressed-heck, he might as well ask for my hand in marriage right then and there to see how gallant I'd be.

"Why, she scared?" Johny asked. "You too scared, Jalen, then you can sit it out and be a wimp."

"No," I said. "I'll do it." I only imagine they were surprised because I can't quite remember the response.

The very next day, I stuffed what clothes, money, and food I found in the cupboard into a backpack, I told my mother I'd be leaving (don't think she wanted to deal with my reputation just as much as I wanted to promote it), turned on my heel and left my house. Ma took it just fine. That was just the relationship between Ma and me. She always looked lonely when I was around-as if she were the only one fighting some kind of endless battle. Dad left her even before I was born. I guess that's why when I used to ask about him, she'd scream for me to get to my room, then throw a fit greater than any raging storm. That was the only time we'd ever talk anyway.

Before I left I asked Martin to meet me under the tree on the hill again, just one last time before I took off. He came on time and brought along his warm smile. I remember him holding me like we were old enough to know what love is.

"When do you think you'll come back?" he asked me.

"I don't know," I told him. "Maybe a week, maybe two."

"You really are the great Daredevil," he laughed and I did too. How I loved him. I wanted to tell him that he meant the world to me, but my sixteen year old vocabulary couldn't express the feeling those boiling chemicals inside me were concocting.

Turns out that "week, maybe two" became months, then years-five to be exact during which I broke both my arms in a freak training accident, met the greatest warrior in the world, and then watched him kill my friends as I slid out of consciousness. Isn't it all the same? For everyone who had to know, had to feel.

Sephiroth was no joke.


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