There's a moment of silent thought before Seifer falls asleep at night; a moment where all the violence of his demeanor and all the sarcasm in his attitude stops and fades away.
There is a moment where he is simply Seifer.
Not the commander of the Disciplinary Committee and not the rival to the most talented student in school. Not a punk, not a jerk and not a bully; but just Seifer.
Seifer hates these moments.
He hates them because he's not always sure who Seifer is. One night he's a normal teenage boy, worrying about girls and boys and rumors and grades, and the next night he's a child, worrying about the wind sounding like a monster outside his window and wishing his mother was there. Then there are nights that he's an adult; worrying over his next battle and when his paycheck is coming in so he can buy food and put gas in his car.
These silent moments are the worst part of Seifer's nights. When he can, he avoids sleep for days at a time, simply so he doesn't have to lie down and confront the silence.
Silence represents too much for him; loneliness, abandonment, sorrow and, worst of all, weakness.
In these silent moments, right before sleep overtakes him, memories come to haunt him. Memories Seifer buried inside himself long ago. Memories that, if Seifer was honest with himself, he just isn't strong enough to handle.
Oh sure, he talked a big game about being tough, and on the battlefield he was. On the battlefield he was nearly undefeatable. On the battlefield, Seifer was king. But he knew that brute strength didn't make someone strong.
In those treacherous silent moments he can remember soft blonde curls and a strong tenor voice. There's a tall man standing there, with a smile on a stern face, and a beautiful woman holding him; he can remember white clouds painted on the blue skies of a nursery that smelled of sunshine. In fact, if he has had a really bad day, he can smell a sweet perfume that fills up the room and feel the crisp clean of the white sheets of a crib that he could swear was yellow. He can even hear the mechanical twirl of a mobile above his head and almost see the colorful suns and moons swirl above his head as a soft melody plays through a speaker.
But then reality cuts in to the dance of his memories harshly; because remembering all the good meant remembering all the bad.
Remembering sunshine and soft curls of hair meant remembering the rain on the pavement and the warm tears on a woman's soft cheek. It meant remembering a tall man, with a stern face holding his head in his hands and crying, a blonde woman with her hair plastered to her face, clinging to a small Seifer so tight he thought he would burst, her sweet voice whispering over and over that she was sorry. And all he could remember was that he couldn't think of what she was sorry for.
All he could remember was loving her and her voice; her perfume and her laugh. He could remember bright skies and a soft voice singing to him and the warm, maternal caress of a hand as he drifted off to sleep…and then he could contrast it with the dull walls of the orphanage, the shrieking voices of too many children and the cold, hard feel of his mattress as he tossed and turned to fall asleep at night. He could remember how the sun never seemed to shine in his life anymore.
And as all of this collided in his head, Seifer would curl up into a tight ball on his bed and shut the world out. He would just pretend the rest of the world didn't exsist. Sometimes he would pull out his phone and look at the numbers saved in it, reminding himself that he had a life to live tomorrow and that he couldn't be like this forever. He paused so often over Squalls number, almost being brave enough to call him, but knowing that it wouldn't get him anywhere.
Once or twice, he would actually write out a text to Squall, saying how he needed someone with him; maybe just needed someone to come down to his room and hold his hand or pet his hair for a moment. But he would never send it. Always he would click his phone closed and squeeze his eyes shut and push the darkness away.
When he woke up, he would resume life as if there were no sad memories, and no happy ones. He would continue on as if he was mean and cruel and had been such his whole life. He would pretend that there was no pain in his life, no hurt dwelling beneath the surface.
But every night he would close his eyes, relax all his muscles and start to drift off. And in those few seconds before sleep over took him, his mother would be there, petting his hair and singing softly. The walls would become blue with crudely painted clouds on them; he would smell sweet perfume and hear a strong tenor voice talking to him.
A brightly lit world washed over him, and for a moment Seifer would allow himself to imagine he had a home.