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The Reaper's Tale:
Dreadful Commencement
You want to know more about me right? Do you really want to know?
Haha…I know…I sound like Peter Parker from the Spiderman movie…but there's really no other way to put it any more plainly.
You are here to hear the tale of the Reaper. The one who lost everything before she even had it to begin with. The one who was condemned to a life of dark secrets and an even darker truth.
Where to start…Where to start? At the beginning I suppose. The beginning of a life of misery, strife, failure, guilt and redemption.
Redemption? Hmm…maybe not that…at least not yet…
I know that it all began with the fact that I was born…rather…weak. Second born, second best. I've heard that somewhere. Although that particular statement does not ring true now, at one point it did. Like I said…I was born weak. So weak that the doctors thought that I would not survive the night. They took it upon themselves to save my mother the heartache of knowing that I was living, or rather struggling to live, only so that I could die. So, they went ahead… and they told her that I had died. Only a few minutes after birth. She was devastated. To have lost my father long before my brother and I were born and then to have lost… me. I know I will never be able to comprehend the pain or the suffering she had to endure, but I can do no more than to hope that the pain eased as the years passed since I can no longer hope to see her face to face.
Face to face. Hm…I suppose I kind of do that whenever I look in the mirror. Hehe…I was shocked the first time I peered at a photograph of her. I could have sworn I was looking at a photo of myself…only…made to look older by those age-enhancing machines. We had the same…everything. Well, almost. There were those subtle differences that I could only discern after having stared for hours at the photo and then myself, in the mirror. Only after looking over every miniscule detail, could I say that I knew how we were different. I will name only a few. Our faces are different in their shape. That is really the biggest way to tell myself apart from her. Hers was rounder than mine. My face is thinner, slightly more oval looking than hers. And my eyes. Although they are the same chocolate brown, mine are…not quite as round as hers. They're a thinner almond shape. All in all, my appearance is more…sleek…than hers. At first sight though…you could not tell us apart. I doubt either Jin or Kazuya could…not at first sight anyway
…later…well, I'm sure they could…
But enough of my appearance. That's not what you came here to know about.
My life. Now that is what intrigues you. But I will tell you now, that my life is a dark one. Hardly a life at all. Death…It's more a tale about Death…The reason they call me Reaper.
Life. What those doctors thought I would surely lose. But it seems that even then, Death thought me a friend. He refused to take what little life I had. He lingered around, no doubt, wondering if he should take pity on me and end my struggle. I guess he saw something in me that did not deserved to be taken away. Perhaps he saw what I could do, even before I did. It's possible don't you think? Death is a lonely figure. Wandering the lands, ending the continuation of life. He can do no more. It is what he is meant to do. There can only be life, if there is death.
Perhaps he saw in me a sort of companion. I could be at his side, and understand his…existence…for I had been blessed…or rather, cursed…with the same gift. Can it really be called that? A Gift? To be able to end the God-given gift of life? No. It is not a gift. But to be honest I don't know what else to call it. So suppose for now "gift" will explain my…ability…
Ahh…I am wandering from the story, the tale, aren't I? You must forgive my shortcomings. I tend to drift sometimes…my mind likes to ponder thoughts that I would be better off not pondering.
Back to my tale then…my tale…
After a those idiotic doctors saw that I was not about to die, that I had cheated death, they were presented with one hell of a conundrum…hehe…conundrum…what a curious word… ah…but there I go again…maybe I should say…problem… Yes. Problem. And one hell of a problem it was. They had told my mother I was dead. And I wasn't. Instead of succumbing to the cold world of the damned and deceased, I gained strength. Shock. Could it have been anything else to them? Clearly I was going to pull through, but they could not give me back to my mother. No doubt she would raise charges against the hospital…the doctors…
They were not going to risk their hard earned career by giving me back. Instead they took me to the nearest orphanage. Suddenly, I was just an abandoned baby, left at the steps of the hospital by a stranger who did not care about me. With that 'story' they left me. I was taken away from the life I could have had with my mother and my twin.
There my life of despair truly began.
It was not long before someone found interest in me. I had no parents…no family…no… papers. There was no way that I could be tracked back to my mother. I'm practically a dumpster-baby, remember? I was perfect. Only a few months old but, according to the nuns that ran that orphanage, surprisingly docile. I proved to be one of the most adoptable infants.
Of course I was not fussy. I was rarely left alone. While the nuns tended to me during the day, Death tended to me during the night. Our little friendship began to grow much more strongly. Adorable. Doesn't it seem that way? …No? Perhaps you would say…morbid…disgusting…horrifying. I suppose they're all true. It just depends on your views of life…and death. It all comes back to that doesn't it?
Like I was saying…someone found interest in me. No, it was not some loving couple who since they could not have children of their own wanted to better the life of an orphan.
No.
They were so much worse.
They were recruiters.
They posed as a couple. But they were not. I was said to be the best of the bunch, and so I was picked. And instead of being taken to loving home, I was taken to a prison. It may not have been an actual prison, but little differentiated it from one. I suppose it more closely resembled a mental facility, in the sense that the rooms were padded with large white squares of foam to prevent us from trying to injure ourselves when we got older.
We.
I say "we" because I was not the only one. Numerous orphans had been taken from countless orphanages around the country. We were all taken because we were both untraceable and un-troublesome.
The first few years were just to condition us. We had to learn the basics.
The basics of what, you ask? Well, let me tell you.
The basics of assassination.
We had to learn to feel no pity, no remorse, no compassion. We could not be weak-stomached. We had to be strong. Emotions meant death.
That is what we learned.
Ruthless, cold, merciless. This is what we had to be. We were assassins…the best…even as children…we were the best.
Emotions meant death. Curious statement don't you think? Emotions meant death…Huh…
That phrase was supposed to remind us of the reason we killed. It was the motto we all lived by day by day…and kill by kill. It was the REASON. Those who had emotions sought us out to bring about death. Also, it was ingrained into our minds that if we felt emotion we would come face-to-face with Death. He would find us and reach out to us so that he could pull us into his cold embrace. And Death never let anyone go. (As far as I know…I've been the only exception. But there have been miracles you say? Well, the only reason those miracles occurred were because Death was not around. Sure…people have had horrible accidents and survived…but that is only because Death was busy somewhere else…he didn't have the time to go end their life)
He Never, Let Anyone Go. At least that is what they said. I guess the only reason I have emotions…why I feel sad, depressed, guilty…is because I know Death. How ironic. He's my friend remember? My best friend, actually. The only one who has never left me. The only one who is always there for me when I need him. No human has ever been like that for me. Ever.
Despite having emotions…I was still the best of the best. I could pin down opponents faster than they could step forward to attack me. It runs in my blood…that fire that rages through the veins, that thirst to fight…so I guess it makes sense.
I attribute the discovery of my "gift" to the hard-pressured training. The rigor, the discipline, the cruelty of our "teachers." I did not like to be told what to do. I know I said I was docile. But that was me as an infant. As a young girl…I learned that I did not like to be… bossed around. I was not a puppet but apparently they thought I was. They tied strings to my arms, my legs, my mind, and my heart. They were the puppeteers. They told me what to do, what not to do, who to kill, who not to kill. Or so they thought…
I. Did. Not. Like. It.
What they didn't know…was that this little puppet had a pair of scissors.
So one day, I retaliated. I cut those accursed strings.
The "instructor" was not pleased with the way I had taken down my opponent. The opponent was another one of the child-assassins. He said that I had taken him down too quickly. That I hadn't fully appreciated the "kill."
Appreciate. Appreciate The Kill?
I was sick of him. I was sick of his voice, of his methods, of his views on the world, of his black, emotionless eyes. Everything about him disgusted me. I was sick of it ALL.
Fury boiled in my blood. My heart began to pound so hard I could have sworn that my ribcage would shatter and that the splintered bone would dig back into my heart, skewering it through a thousand times. Heat began to course through my entire frame. Not that I had a very large one. Still, I'm pretty sure he could feel the fury. My aura must have looked like the sun had lent me its strength and its burning passion. I looked into his black eyes and stared. At the time, I had thought he had been taken aback by the rage in my brown eyes. Later I would realize that he had witnessed my eyes change colors, shifting from brown to gold.
To be honest I don't know how I did it, but I killed him. I put my hand to his heart and let my wrath do the rest. He was on the ground, dead, before he could even slap my hand away.
There, in the middle of that barren room, with the wide eyes of the other children looking at me in amazement, I realized that I had killed him by merely touching him. I could feel Death's cold hand on my shoulder as he admired my work. It was as if he was telling me that he couldn't have done it better himself.
How sweet…
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A/n: So. What do you think so far?
A horrible way to start life isn't it?
I suppose Jaez is my "tragic-heroine"
Want more? Let me know…