weathered glass panes, a final fantasy vii fanfic

a . n ////
It's messy, a tad bit crazy,
and a little dark around the edges.
It's in a teenaged Cloud first person point of view
and he's on the angsty bandwagon with love/hate issues.
so i hope all that is warning enough :)

semi-au-ish.
playlist on repeat~Death Cab for Cutie we looked like giants

weathered glass panes;
there is a part inside all of us that demands to be forgotten. but it never goes away.

Sometimes, I go for walks through the neighborhood. But the neighborhood is, in a sense, the whole town, so technically speaking, I take walks all over the town. It's only a few houses, and a lot of hills, and I don't mind any of it. The trails are nice, and the views are breathtaking. I see a lot of birds. I don't know any of their names, and I feel as if I should, since I'm watching their beauty steal away the skies. Thoughts like that never exactly strike me, but it's only when, on those certain days, they watch me too. I don't know what they are, and they don't know what I am, but it's almost as if we understand each other in that way.

And it's so peaceful and calm. I like it like that.

I usually feel like a damn sissy, thinking in that girly way. I won't get anywhere with those thoughts in my head, but I figure, if I keep seeing things as wonderful and great, sometimes even untouchable, then life will hold a small ounce of that throughout. It'll hold something for me, in the future.

I don't really see where I'm going, most of the time. I do it to get away. I don't love staying at my place, but I know my place doesn't necessarily love me staying either, so it's a win-win situation I have. I tend to keep it, but it's getting harder and harder.

I pass by the flimsy bridge to Mount Nibel from time to time. I stop, and I stare at it. People around here say it's dangerous, full of 'monsters' and 'hideous beings'. But it's full and majestic, plastered against the blue-grey background of sky. I have a difficult time believing them. The people here are close-minded and a bit crazy, so it's easy to dismiss them. I feel guilty about that every once in a while, but I think adapting far away from them is the best thing for me to do. My mom agrees with me on that, but maybe she's talking from experience. I don't think she's crazy, but then again, I grew up here. What do I know?

I pass the Shinra Mansion. That place is full of myths and legends. The gate in the front is rustic and locked, but I feel rebellion pitter patter into my veins when I look at it. But the place smells like death and cobwebs. I don't know what to make of it, yet.

I pass the well too. But I avoid it as much as I can. I can't stand it, and I don't know why.

I pass a homely looking house last. And even though this place is in the country side, built on a freaking mountain, I still say that, out of all the homely houses here, the one I pass last is the homely-est.

And I don't mean it in a bad way. There's just something about it. It has the name plaque up by the carved, wooden door, a welcome mat that's badly worn out from eager visitors, windows with draping curtains, awnings above the kitchen window. The cherry on top of the tip-top of the mountain. That house is what this place should be about. But it's not.

I have a feeling I only think that because of who lives there. If she wasn't here, I'd've packed my bags a long time ago.

In the end, I always reach my house, right across from hers. My shoes are dulled and dusty, my hair's a mess—but it's always a mess and I don't care about fixing it—I smell like a dog, and I'm full of grime. But I love it like that. Makes me feel like I did something useful. And it's a plus, because the sun is consistently in the right place, a semi-circle against pink and orange and a dying red. I'll be able to go to my room in an hours' time without many questions.

Dad was being more vicious than usual tonight. He channeled most of it toward mom, and I try not to interject from exposure of what happens if I do. But I couldn't help it tonight. They were cruel, the words he said. I hated it. I hated it so much.

I hate him.

You know what they say about families, and it wouldn't be a family if they didn't make you hate them? I think that's a lie. It's not true. He's a bastard, and you can't forget the things he says. His voice is rough and menacing, and there's something about it. It rings in my ears for weeks, and it cracks my skull. Those scars never heal. They.. won't. Even if I could bandage them up, they'll bleed through.

I can't understand why my mom stays. Maybe I was right about her being crazy.

I regularly sneak out my window at night.

At first, it was because my blood was still singing with violent rage almost every night. But now? It's only routine. It's normalcy. If I don't do it, I'll feel more off balance then I already am.

I've mastered the perfect ledges, the makeshift gutter my dad and I built together way back when. It's funny, thinking I slide down that, and it's sturdy and gives me enough support to last all the way down.

I turn, and I creep up the trail a little ways until I see the well. It's a lot less harsh in the nighttime. But maybe that's because she never fails to be sitting on top of it.

She's normalcy too. I like knowing she sneaks out like me, and it's routine for her even though she doesn't know I'm there.

I tell myself this isn't unhealthy. I only watch, and I don't do anything else. Or at least, I try. She's a very pretty picture, sitting up high with the moon reflecting off her skin and eyelashes. It makes me hopeful. But she makes my mind go to places I don't mean for it to go.

And I don't think I've gone deranged yet, and I'm not a lost, kid stalker. It's a coincidence, here, in this village. She looks at the night like I look at the skies. She's a beautiful frame surrounding the muck, and it's hard to look away. She makes everything seem magical, somehow.

But she cries sometimes, and they're silent tears. I have a feeling she does that because she doesn't want her father to hear. Or maybe it's a silent prayer. I have those, too.

I sit with my back to the wall of some house. I make sure to keep to the shadows. If she saw me, I don't know what I'd do. I can't talk to her.

Watching her rock back and forth, though, and rubbing the wood with her hands, it's lulling. It's – calming.

I feel as if she is my only friend here.

I find odd jobs around town. Messenger, deliverer, whatever I can do. To me, it's to help my mom. But I think she doesn't understand that.

I only go out after schooling with her. She tries her best with the little she knows. I can't complain. I look up to her for it. She has one of the hardest jobs in the world.

I think I love her. No, I – I love her a lot. I just don't think she sees it, sometimes. But she smiles at me, even when dad's near and looming. I smile back, through my thick frowning.

I secretly put my earnings into her stash in the corner of the pantry. He never looks there.

When I walk, there is one place I will never, ever visit.

It's the place dad works. It's the reactor.

I asked about how it worked once, and I got a punch in the jaw. I don't think I want to know.

But it works the electricity of the town, and without it, it would be tough all around. I could thank dad for that, going to work for us, but I never will. I've learned he doesn't do it for me or mom. He does it to get away.

I remember him going to work there when it first came around, when I was about five or six. I don't remember the glinting in his eyes back then from when I was seven or eight to now. But I like to think he grew into it on his own.

As the days pass, I linger longer at the bridge. It blows a breeze at me every time I stand there. It doesn't matter what time I get there. There is always a breeze. And it always whispers the same thing. I need to cross it.

But it promises a lot of things in every whisper, and they are a lot less manipulating then my father's.

On the way back to my house one day, I ran into her. Or, uh, walked into her. I know I don't exactly see the things in front of me all the time when I'm walking, but I could have sworn if I ever saw her, I'd actually see her.

She fumbled back, but I caught her instantly. Her forearms burned through my already burned out gloves, but I couldn't let go. I saw her eyes for the first time, up close. They were so much different in the sun.

"Thanks," she said. I blinked and jumped back. I realized that I had almost knocked her over, touched her, and she was thanking me. I rubbed my hair in habit and couldn't concentrate enough to roll my eyes at her politeness.

I think I grunted. It – it was hard to say anything. I had to look down at the ground.

I saw her tilt her head out of my periphery. "I was about to ask your mom if she would like some of our homemade broccoli and rice casserole."

I glanced up to see her smiling. Gaia, please, make it stop.

"Would you like some?"

I opened my mouth, but I nodded. I hated being this way. I hated it enough that I swallowed the dried spit in my throat, and rasped out a, "Sure."

She was holding an arm behind her back, twisting from side to side. "Great! I'll just tell my dad. He'll be thrilled." She smiled again, and scampered away.

I felt like falling backward onto the ground.

That meal was the best I've ever had. Even my father seemed more subdued than most days, and for a second there, I thought we could have been peaceful.

I still snuck out of my room. But I guess the surprise factor was cushioned by my contentment of the broccoli and rice and cheese.

Because she wasn't on the well. And I almost staggered back. But my feet were anchored by the warmth still radiating from my stomach. It pushed my legs to move as well, and I was standing before the dreaded, wooden specter, clashing with the midnight dome overhead. I felt bats mixing with my digesting food, and I couldn't pinpoint the reason it churned the way it did, standing there. So I took a step up, and another, and another, until the bats were exploding and I felt like I was going to vomit my good feeling all over the planks.

I collapsed, and my breathing was ricocheting against the chilly air. The fog puffed back into my face. I leaned backward, and I rubbed the wood the way she did when she was here.

It didn't help much.

I closed my eyes, and pretended she was sitting by me, and that we were both looking far off into the distance. Somewhere - else.

And I, I think it helped.

"Hey."

I lurched, and I almost lost my seat. I looked down and I saw her, looking up at me with her teeth holding down a laugh. "I thought I saw you come out here."

I felt my stomach expand, and I thought maybe she watched me like I watched her. But not as much as me. Maybe only a few times. My food was climbing up my throat nonetheless.

My eyes followed her as she reached the top. She came and sat by me. She was close. Her scent reached my nostrils, and my skin was rejecting it with goosebumps.

"You - sneak out?" I could not look away from her. It was dangerous. But I was still able to use my voice, and that surprised me the most. She glanced over to me, and her eyes were opaque and hot and rich. The moonlight glinted yellow caution tape, and I took to not noticing.

"Yeah.." she looked as if she was weighing the consequences of telling me. But I wanted her to. I had a need for her to tell me everything. I wanted her to tell me everything. Dangerous. But we were friends, weren't we? And I blinked. No, we weren't, of course we weren't.

And yet, she was like the birds I saw, taking those walks.

"Yeah, I do," she seemed to come to a decision. She was still looking at me. "And I think you do, too."

I didn't know what she meant by that, whether she knew more than I hoped. She had a small, teenaged-devious smile on her face. I couldn't help but - I couldn't help but want her. Not only her words, but everything else, too. Dangerous.

It was a lot easier when I was huddled in a corner of a shadow. Here though, the moonlight drenched my body, and there was nowhere my thoughts could take shelter.

"Yes. I do," I had no idea what to say. There were so many questions I had, but those questions kept getting blocked by my inward insecurities. I felt free, but I felt scared, and it was stupid and rash and I didn't know why I felt this way.. but I did.

The bats were turning into vampires. My color was draining and my heart rate was a stumble against my tissue walls.

She hummed. "I thought as much. I see you, sometimes." I was getting weaker, and I mentally berated myself for thinking I was covert all this time.

"I always wondered why you didn't come out and talk to me," she was watching the dome nighttime again, and for that I was grateful.

"But.." I felt my right cheek burn with her rich color. I turned, to make it stop, but it was much worse now. Much, much worse now. My pupils were watering from the sting.

Aside from the bluriness, though, I saw clearly. Her mouth was still halfway open, and her lips were chapped. But her eyes were open in a way that everything else could never be.

Questions are one thing. Understanding is something else entirely.

Under the spell, under the magical frame I found myself breaking, I grabbed her shoulders and I kissed her. It was a fumble, an awkward grasp in this spot, a careless touch at another. But I didn't care. I don't think she did either.

I never understood those sappy romances, where the guy tasted the girl, like she was some sort of fattening dessert, an indulgence. But that's what I was expecting, some sweet, velvety flavor to reach into my stomach and make me pool with sweat.

She didn't. She didn't taste like anything. Her lips were rough, and her fingers were not delicate. But I liked what they felt like, and I liked how they explored. And instead of pooling with sweat, I pooled with something else. I started flushing all the same.

This was dangerous. But it was a good kind of teenage rebellion dangerous. The kind I thrive off of when worse comes to worst.

She met me at the bridge the next day. I didn't know she was going to pop up here, but I should have figured that out when she asked me what I was going to do last night. But I also knew she had classes with Zangan in the mornings. I almost asked, but she shook her head, her cheeks a rosy pink. She had her own reasons, so I didn't push the boundaries. She would tell me if she wanted to, wouldn't she? But I wanted her to.

She knew about the stories of Mount Nibel, just like everyone else did. I told her I wanted to cross it regardless of what was really out there. I focused on her, a heart shattering smile halving her face. I felt an ulcer eat up my sides, full of dread and worry. I already knew what she was going to say.

"I'm coming with you." Her eyes were glistening, and I didn't think I had it in me to stand my ground. But I placed myself between her and the bridge.

"I don't .." I felt myself end with a grunt.

"Hey now," she said, and it was soft and motherly. "I won't let you go by yourself. What if you don't come back?"

I got weak knees, and my resolve dissolved up in the mountain air. Buried inside of me, I wanted her to be with me on this journey, across and through the mountains. Maybe this had been why I waited so long, why I couldn't feel the breeze whisper anymore with her here. Whatever I found there, she would be a part of it.

It made me at ease, crossing the rickety bridge, wrapping my fingers around hers like vocal chords. I couldn't tell her, so I figured squeezing her hand could do the job my voice could not. I would not let her fall down, down, down like last time.

We reached the other side, panting and eager. When she started to laugh, hair whipping with adventure, my feet stuttered and I ignored the desperate urge to kiss her. I won't ever force something like that on her, not if she doesn't want it. I don't want to be like my father.

But yesterday was different, and she sucked on me with as much passionate need as I did to her. It was mutual, and whatever it was that made us come together, I'm scared of it now. It's not...I don't understand. I don't understand why she'd kiss such a screw up like me when she could have any of those guys who deliver her those flowers underneath her window.

So I promise myself, as I watch her stumble along with me, that I won't succumb to the empty emotions I feel. They will not last, because I don't believe in them, or what they mean. They aren't real, they've never been real.

But her smile is contagious, and I let my face soften, just a bit.

The mountain passes and bends were tortuous and long, and the sun lowered faster then I thought it would. I'd glance at her every so often, but her eyes were never stressed and there were no lines on her face. It helped me relax. The last thing I wanted was for her father to become angry.

We made it to a cave. It echoed loudly, and we didn't know where it ended. It was inky and black, but nothing roared back at us from its depths. Either way, we walked back near the landing, overlooking the deep falling valley, to a sunken river, to the few houses of the village. I felt my guts drop down into my toes at the view. It was nothing like my walks around town. Nothing could compare to this.

We sat there a while, just watching, waiting for nothing. She leaned against my shoulder, and I involuntarily became hot. I felt my cheeks burning, and I willed it away. We didn't say much, sitting there together, but the silence was comforting. I've never felt that kind of peace with anybody before.

We walked back and made it into town before sundown. It was easier after gaining familiarity with the terrain, and it went a lot faster. We made sure to go separate ways, and I hung back a while, waiting behind her. She told me she could do this every other day without many consequences, and I didn't want to look relieved or content with her answer, so I nodded. I let her know I always roamed around, and if she wanted to find me, it wouldn't be hard. She only smiled, said, "Okay," and leaned into a kiss on my cheek. I caught myself from falling on the wooden post before the bridge.

I need to work on that.

It went like that for the next few weeks. I'd finish my morning job, walk around to the pass and hear the crumbling wood click-clack together with the breezes. I try not to be surprised when I see her there, sitting on the ledge to the left of the bridge, her face against the wind. I've been trying to stop myself from asking why she's still coming, why she doesn't just not show up. But.. it's getting easier not to question. It's only becoming a nag that never leaves me, in the back of my head. And even though I've tried to make her stop, it was half-hearted, and I wonder, since I don't really believe in this, why I can't nip it in the bud completely.

Then, there came a time where I needed more. I couldn't thrive off of the little mountain pass hang outs, the little spurts of bonding on the well. I've only kissed her twice, but the second time shouldn't be considered. I wish I could hate it enough to act as if it never happened, but everything I do with her is fresh in my mind every second of every day. And though she is forbidden, in my mind and in between our families, she fills a void I can't quite explain.

I was about to stand up when she spoke up, nervously, "I'm staying at a friend's house." I looked down at her face, nodding, missing what she meant. "Let's go, then," I said, ready, and not ready, to take her back. But she grabbed my arm, and I knew I wasn't going to take her back. Not right now.

"No," she shook her head. "I'm...you're the friend I'm staying over with." She was looking at the ground, and she let go of my arm. My eyes widened.

I told her before my father would be out of town for a few days. He wouldn't be here until tomorrow night.

But my diaphragm punctured with her words, and it was hard to breathe.

"I.."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean - no, it's all wrong -" she looked as if she was going to crumble, and I couldn't - I couldn't -

The moment reversed, and I grabbed her arm this time, keeping her from standing. I analyzed her eyes for a long, long time, and she didn't shy away from me. In fact, it came to the point where I wanted to. But I was stuck, and I was blind to everything else.

She gasped, "I don't want to be home right now." Her hands clutched at her khaki pants, bunching them into sad faced wrinkles. "I - I can't."

I had nothing to say. I reached out and enveloped her hand in mine.

Squeezing my fingers, she spoke again. "It's the - the anniversary of my mom - my mom's death." She shook her head, fast and violent. "I can't stay with my dad."

There was so much I wanted to say to her, at that moment. It was the perfect moment. There was something so obviously connecting about it, and it was rubbing me raw. My heart knocked angrily against my sternum, and I thought, maybe, I was bleeding.

I dared to pull her face in my direction, and I caught the tear that almost slipped off the edge. Her eyes still looked to the pebbles on the ground, and I didn't think about all the danger anymore. It was exhilarating, at first, knowing we weren't supposed to be up here. Or in contact. Or even friends. Or wanting and needing. Now, I didn't know what we were, and I wouldn't let myself think about it too hard. This, right now, didn't take anything else into account.

All I wanted to show, now, was the understanding she gave me on the well.

I leaned in, quietly, surely, explicitly unhurried. I wanted her to push me away if she didn't want this kind of treatment. I never felt it.

I grazed her lips, and I tried to be gentle. I'm not sure how to be gentle or, or affectionate. But when I felt her hands in my hair, and the devastation of her teeth, I knew I didn't have to be gentle any longer.

We stayed tangled for a long time, in the tangible comfort us loveless kids seem to strive for. I gazed at the thunderheads waving in, smelling the scent of lightning sparking contractions in the dark grey. We didn't think we'd make it back before the storm hit, but neither of us cared about leaving the cave.

I brought a pack with me. I always bring a pack. She teases me about being a closet control freak, but I take pride in being prepared.

I took out a lighter, and we made a makeshift torch holder. We found a patch of sticks a little ways into the shadowy cave, and we had them above us in a glowing fire. I noticed what she looked like, partly orange and red and black, and I made myself remember.

I felt the first drop of rain a bit later, as I sat on the ledge. She was sitting back in the cave, against the wall, telling me about what her mom was like. I loved listening to what she had to say, and the little details she'd add. They made me close my eyes, and - I wasn't in this world anymore.

I stood up when I felt sprinkles, and I lolled my head back to taste it. I heard her laugh in the background, stomping up to where I was. She smiled and held her head back, too. I think I smiled a little, observing her, with her eyes closed and carefree.

I caught the way the strands of her hair mixed with the fire in the back, showing me her dimples, her indents. I saw the cliff face of her neck, and the steep, dangerous dangerous slope. I didn't know I was feeling it, reaching out, until she stepped backward, laughing, thinking I was tickling her (she was sensitive there, she had said earlier), and her eyes were shining with mirth. But when she looked at my face, her laughing died out and her smile took a slow motion dive to a line. Her eyes became serious, and I wanted to know, so badly, what she saw in my face.

A twinge of lightning conducted, and I felt the vibration of thunder wash into me. The dark-grey was rushing into a dark, ebony black, and I remembered the well. I remembered what I felt. I remembered all the little thoughts I had about her, in that pretty, little blue dress. The pool of something was back.

But I - I wasn't flushing this time. I was stepping toward her, and I started to hate myself all over.

Her back found the cave wall, rocky and sharp. I heard her intake of breath, watched her eyelids fall a little ways down her shocking eyes. I couldn't stop myself. The nagging came back at full force, underneath the foldings of my beat up brain. My hands found her hips, and my mouth reached for her neck. I smelled her, mint and frost and all the earthy scents of mountain air.

I felt a breeze blow against us, and I felt her shiver. I heard the whispers again, and I ignored them. But I think, somehow, this mountain wanted me to find her.

Her hands planted under my shirt, scraping at my stomach. My hands found her back, my fingers leaving filthy bruises.

She took my shirt off. I took her shirt off.

And all I knew after that, after watching her chin quiver and heart pump and pump, her hair tangle into my skin, her eyes bleed a red, crystal color -

I knew that I was not sixteen anymore.

I've never been great at keeping secrets. I never talk about them, when I make them, but sometimes, the evidence is hard to clean up.

I got home in the morning, and for the first time in a long, long time, I wasn't dreading anything at all. I knew my father would come back, and I knew my house would never be a home, but it didn't matter anymore. Nothing...mattered. Nothing mattered, except her. I could still feel her, wrapped up against my side. And I could still smell her with every puff of dust my feet would kick up.

I'd still be lying to myself if I thought that this wasn't...real.

"Oh! My goodness! Cloud!" My mom opened the door right as I walked up the porch. The guilt rose up my throat, but I tried to give her a meek look.

I shouldn't do this to my mom. She has enough stress already.

I stepped through the threshold. "Sorry, I -"

"He's done early, dear. He woke up extra early, such a good boy."

I gave her a confused look, but I followed her stare.

And sitting in the living room, in his favorite chair, was my father. He was nursing a pipe, watching us as calm as could be. His eyes latched onto mom.

"What have I told you about lying, Maria?" I knew that relaxed voice. I inherited that voice.

He stood up, stretching, and I stayed my place. I struck him with the same look he was giving. He rolled his neck around and looked at me. He laughed, interlaced with gruff smoke.

"Well, well, well, look at what the cat dragged in." He took deliberate steps toward me, in his trademark dance. But he didn't scare me anymore. I don't think anything could scare me anymore. Not right now.

"Robert -"

He held up his hand in my mom's direction. She quieted, but she stood by my side.

"Looks like you had a fun night." He stopped in front of me, rolled back on his heels. He lifted up my rain battered sleeve, sneering at the dried mud. He glanced out the window, then looked back at me with a smile. It was that knowing, mendacious smile only he had.

"You've been fuckin' with Lockhart's daughter, haven't you?"

I felt my back bristle, my stomach plunge. My hands twitched and wanted to make fists, but I needed to hold back.

He 'tsk'ed. "Didn't know you had it in you, your ass being so scrawny and all." He punched my shoulder. "Well, now, I think I'm proud of you." He laughed again, and his breath wanted to make me gag. My eyebrows fell, and my neck was stinging with my pulse.

He dragged his pipe. "I've been thinkin' about her too, you know, figuring I could screw that bastard's daughter. But I know you kids." He blew out. "You're always so impatient. You should have let her ripen up."

I felt myself shaking. My vision had black-blue around the edges, and his face was becoming magnified underneath all the fury.

"I think I may have second thoughts about her." He bent his eyebrows in, puckered out his lips. "But she's just so damn cute. I may let myself slip."

I heard my knuckles pop, and I watched him stagger backward, holding a hand up to his jaw. His pipe flew out of the room, away from his controlling grip. Away from his reign.

I punched him again, hearing a few cracks, and again, pressing into his cornea. I felt my hand bruising, but I could care less. I heard my mom scream something, a strangled cry maybe, but I could care less about that too. At the moment, all I cared about was running away from here, and protecting something I thought I found.

I went up the stairs two at a time. I passed my father's office, the sword above his chair a smear of metal in my vision. It glinted in my periphery, and it reminded me of my father's white-blue eyes, and the victory in them when I landed my fist.

I launched into my room, and I closed the door. I found a chair and hastily put it up against the doorknob. It was hard to do. My hands were shaky.

I rummaged through my closet, and I found the pack I created a few months ago. I knew what I put in it. I didn't have to check.

I waited until I heard pounding on my door, the quiet, empty threats passing through underneath the gap. I waited for my breathing to control. I waited. And I waited. And I waited until I didn't want to cry anymore.

She was hunched on the well. She told me her father came by Monica's house, to come get her, to tell her that he needed her. She didn't want to tell me anymore beyond that.

I wanted to tell her - tell her what happened. But I ended up hugging her, instead.

And I told her about my hopes, pressing my whispers into her ear. I let her revel in the thoughts of running. Of running away, of climbing a mountain trail, a journey, to somewhere where we could be greater than anything we thought we could be.

She choked, gasping against her tears. Her answer was to hug me tighter.

And, hugging her back, I hoped I wasn't crazy. I hoped I wasn't a monster. I hoped that, somewhere inside, she believed me.

We both jerked when we heard it. It was a whisper from Mount Nibel. And it carried a scream.

Love. I never knew the true meaning to it.

I thought, at first, parents were love. Husbands and wives, they were love. I thought my mom and my dad, being husband and wife, being parents, having me - I thought that was the greatest love anybody could have. But I watched them. I watched it feed off their hearts and devour their brains. I could hear my dad's mindset break a little more each day, and I saw the pedestal he held my mom on fall away.

They weren't crazy. They were never really.. crazy.

I ran into my house, letting the front door knob indent the dry wall.

My father was kneeling by my mother, telling her he was sorry, sorry, sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have done that.

I saw the sword behind him. I never got to ask what he did, before he started to work at the reactor. My mom always avoided the question.

But I think I should have pressed the question more. I shouldn't have been so unobliging, so careless. I should have known to ask.

Standing there, I thought I saw my old dad. Or, I thought I heard him. His voice was smooth, rubbing my mom's forehead with his thumb. I remember when he used to do that all the time.

"Dad." I shouldn't have done that.

Because when he looked at me, his eyes were a forest fire green. His hair was turning into glinting silver. His face was pale. He smiled, and my dad, whoever he was, was gone.

"Cloud." I heard it. It was a stint of a whisper. It was the wind. It was Mount Nibel and the monster.

Before I knew what I was doing, I lunged for the sword. It was incredibly heavy in my hands, and he was walking toward me in that slow, calm way.

"I wouldn't do that."

But I saw my mother's bloody corpse, splayed across the carpet. I felt her blood seeping through my boots, touching me one last time with her.. her love.

I swung, and he - whoever he was - the monster, the demon, a part of myself - disappeared. Granulates of dust formed a pillar on the ground. The sword in my hand was heavy.

I thought, maybe, this was all just a bad dream.

I thought, maybe, this was all my doing.

I took the money stash. I don't remember going to the pantry, but I don't remember what I don't want to.

I thought my mom might forgive me, for not staying, for leaving her there on the floor, all red and butchered. I - I couldn't look at her anymore. I tried, but I was weak. I was too weak.

I told her that I loved her, because I think I loved her, because I wanted to love her even though I didn't understand what that meant. And then I left.

Tifa waited for me. And I know I'm a broken record, saying I don't understand why she's still here. She could be wherever she wants to be, but she decides to be here. With me. And I fear for her safety. I worry about her standing next to me.

I'm sure I'm insane now. I look in mirrors, and I watch my eyes turn forest fire green. I dream, but I dream nightmares of blood and darkness, in pieces and in whispers, sewn together in an unprofessional knot. Sometimes, I just want to run away from her, to save her.

But I forget that she's running away too.

And I think, perhaps, we're running to the same place.

I hold her hand, while we're climbing, while we see sights and hold our breaths.

And it gives me this feeling, like I'm a whole instead of a fragment. I'm not floating listlessly in the air, because there is warmth in my fingertips. Where I would let myself float away, she makes sure I stay.

I think - no, I know - that whatever love is, if it's real and throbbing, here and now, this is the closest to it I will ever get.

And if I ever heal, and if I ever have a deep, dreamless slumber, I know she'll be there. Waiting.

It gives me hope.

Long and butchered, I know.
With all the purple, bruised literary tanglets.
But that gives all the more reason to leave reviews right? :)