Note: This is Rinoa when she was younger, around fourteen or fifteen. This was written when I was wondering why Rinoa joined a rebel group in the first place. (I think) A lot of people who are the kids of famous icons are often ostracized because people don't know how to deal with them. And I always felt that Rinoa's cheerfulness (while bordering on manic Selphie-type bubbliness) is kind of acquired from something, like her relationship with Seifer. Maybe she was happy when she was with him, and happy when she was in the Timber Owls. I'm not saying that she isn't happy with Squall, but this was written before even Seifer came along.
RINOA
I don't think that I'll ever be understood. Maybe once, in a long, long time, someone will figure me out. Figure out why I hide behind false pretences, and facades of innocence. I look in the mirror and I don't see someone that's happy. People my age are supposed to be angst-ridden, post-apocalyptic teenagers, right? But I always feel that the world's sinking into bliss-filled happiness without me, while I wallow in self-pity.
Take my mother. Famous singer/composer. Men dreamt of her, woman envied her. She was the goddess of showbiz, an icon of decadence. She embodied velvet and silk and smooth cocktails that drown you in their burning bittersweetness. She was the material girl to everyone, maybe even to my father. To me, she was my mother. Sometimes guiless, sometimes sleek cunning, all maternal love.
My mother died. A part of me died with her. Her voice once soared into the air, sweet and pure. It soared into my heart and took a bit of it with it as it flew into oblivion.
Take my father. He's a general. He's happy, positively cheerful while he's in his office, poring over political governments, settling civil disputes. He talks to officials from all over the war-plagued globe. In every step he takes, confidence swells and reaches a crescendo every second. Every day he helps millions of people, but when he comes home at night all I see is a man who shuffles his feet when he looks at me, who awkwardly starts conversations that end in horrible silence. Sometimes he orders me around more sharply than I want. I know he wants the best for me, but I don't think that he's actually sure what that is.
I think that when someone finally figures me out, I'll vanish. Maybe I'm a living enigma, something for people to puzzle over. Maybe once they piece together the jigsaw, and they see every piece in perfect place, they'll throw it away. A discarded mystery, once solved, then useless.
Maybe in every group of socially-adjusted teenagers there's a loner. I just wish I could meet one. Perhaps we could be friends.