Hi ya. First update as RC. Yaay! This is a re-write of one of Cinderella's older fanfics which have the most requests to be continue. So after two years, it's alive again. We're making it AU for this fanfic, cause I found that staying canon to SSB is difficult for this particular story. We're also looking for a beta.

So, without further ado, enjoy.

- Romeo and Cinderella


~ Prologue :: Bleeding Hearts ~

I don't believe in love. I never did.

The funny thing is, love is supposed to be the most amazing magic in the world, capable of changing the entirety of it. My mother has taught me to always believe in the power of love, taught me the magic of being loved and how to use that love to live one's life to the fullest.

But all it did was fail me.

Reminiscence is often left to the fools that bother with the past, but one cannot help himself from relieving such terrible events. It was forever ingrained in my mind, ever torturing me with its freshness and vivacity.

A calm, star-filled night on the eve of July slowly presented itself, a memory that refuses to be forgotten. Our old home, before it was tattered and raged by tragedy, is an oak-wood duplex created by my mother's grandfather before he passed away. It was the image of warmth. The furnishings were sparse: an old couch in the middle of the room, a dining set that my father has personally carved as a gift for my mother on their second anniversary, a vase of sunny seasonal flowers, a few porcelain figurines and some frames with pictures of the entire family, were arranged artistically around the house, courtesy of my mother. It was a home that I truly enjoyed being raised and living in, especially since my family had been more than enough to make me happy. I knew back then that if I were to have a bad day, I'd have a wonderful home to return to. My mother was a charming woman for her age. She had light brown hair that came down to her shoulders. Her face was pale and rosy, without a blemish in sight. She was tall and graceful, apparently attracted the attention of every man in her high school. But my mother had only ever had eyes for my father. My father was tall and gruff, tanned and rough from his years as a farmer. His eyes were always hidden beneath the cowboy hat that he always wore. He was always silent and rarely talked, but when he did, everyone knew that Flint meant it. His hands were callused, but when he played with my brother and I, he was gentle and loving. He adored his family and would risk anything for us.

Three years after the event, he still blames himself for what happened.

It was my brother's birthday, and due to fact that were twins, it was mine as well. Because of work, my father was not present for it. My mother was quite distressed with this fact, but nonetheless, she placed her annoyance and disappointment for my father aside and ensured that my brother and I enjoyed our tenth birthday. It was arguably the most jovial celebration I have ever experience. The fact that our father wasn't present did little to dampen the occasion. Games were played, candles were blown out, cakes were eaten, frosting smeared over smiling faces and happiness was spread. My closest of friends and my family celebrated the day we were born. I was happy, and so was everyone around me. However, that night was also the night that my belief in love, the emotion that I felt merely hours ago, faded. The small, peaceful town of Tazmily was slowly falling asleep. The guests at the party had departed, slowly bidding Hinawa and her birthday boys goodbye. I thanked the townspeople for their well wishes for my brother and myself, waving to them as they disappeared from the reaches of our farm. Mother then ushered us upstairs, into the bath, preparing us for bed. Se got us dressed into our pajamas, a blue one for my brother and a red one for me. She loosened the curtains from the Velcro ties that held them open during the die and she gazed out into the dark canvas of night, peppered with millions of stars. She longingly looked down at the front porch, obviously waiting for my father to return. She sighed and shifted her attention back to the sleepy twins sitting on their beds. Now I know that had she stayed a bit longer staring out the window, she would have noticed the dark shadows that slowly slinked its way unto the porch.

She kissed my brother Claus and I goodnight, humming us to sleep with her lullaby, like she always did. She blew out or candle and closed the door behind her, satisfied that her children were dreaming good dreams.

Then, the tragedy occurred.

My brother and I woke up the heart-wrenching sound of screaming. It was a long, screeching noise from a voice that my brother and I are so familiar with. Being the curious little children that we were we climbed out of bed, tightly clutching our beloved stuffed animals to our chest. We sleepily crept into our mother and father's room. Two pairs of cerulean peeked around the corner, and watched as a strange man lie in our father's bed, repeatedly and aggressively beating our naked mother. Instinct told us to run and find our father. That much we did.

Our father came, ten minutes too late.

My mother, a woman of virtue and love, was brutally raped when I was ten.

My twin brother, a noble soul, went after the murderer and was missing for three years. My father searched for him in those three years, leaving me, age thirteen then, alone to fend for myself. My father died of grief when I was fifteen, when he found out that the son he was searching for for three years, has turned into a mindless, heartless killing puppet blinded by his sheer anger for his failure in his revenge. My brother committed suicide after learning of the destruction he has caused to his world, the world where he and I were once, to his amazement, happy. He breathed his last breath in my arms.

Everything I loved -my world, my home, my family- was taken away. I lost everything, - my life, my family - all because of the disgusting pleasures of a man.

Now, five years after that tragedy, I still feel the pain from my past. There is just too much that time cannot erase. I'd have flashbacks during the day, and nightmares during the night. I'd hallucinate at times...see things that aren't there...

Sometimes, I'd see my family, smiling softly at me as together, we eat at the dinner table. Sometimes, I see flashbacks of my mother's sad smile as she slowly bled to death. Sometimes, I'd see my brother, dead in my arms.

Doctors have identified the condition that I am in as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, something that only happens when a person experiences intense exposure to traumatic events for a long period of time. However, I myself have my own prognosis for my condition, and it is far, far worse than any white-coat professional can analyse with his observation:

I have been numbed.

I have been numbed by the world. Numbed by the lack of love and security that I have failed to feel over the last sixteen years. The pain of your loved ones dying is excruciating, especially when you have no one to lean on during those dark times.

I cannot feel any more. I made myself unable to feel pain and hurt, but I also made myself unable to feel love and happiness. I used to cringe at the sight of blood and violence, but now, having seen what the world had to show me, I feel myself to be indifferent to the violence and blood and death.

I remember crying at mom's grave all the time when I was small, the one moment of my life where I felt so helpless. I remember the townspeople as they made fun of me and the tears that I shed for my mother. It was unusual to shed tears in a town that was so simple and so full of sunshine and happiness. It was hard to grieve for my late mother and overtime, I have been labeled a crybaby, called a crybaby for my weakness and for the tears that I have shed for the most important woman of my life. But overtime, all the insults and the laughter hardened my childish heart. The boy who often sleep in the biting cold to be with his family was now gone. I rarely visit my family's graves now, all next to each other; together. I want to avoid the painful pang in my heart and the burning reminder that I am alone in this world. One could only take in so much pain before they withdraw from the game called life.

To shield myself from feeling such anguishing emotions again, I shut myself away from the world.
I wanted to stop love from every reaching me again. I wanted to stop myself from loving anything, because I know that if I did feel love again, I'd only lose it, just like I lost my mother, my father, and my beloved twin.

So, I seem to be distant. Most people interpret the way I look and the way I move as me being shy or dreamy, but really, it's me not caring. I don't care about anything in this earth anymore. I merely floated through my life, experiencing and acting to things with as much insensibility as possible. Because of my past, I've lost interest in the present and the future. I've lost all interest in life, love and the pursuit of happiness

And I would have continue down that way, had it not been for you.