Disclaimer: I don't own Final Fantasy VII or any of its characters.
Warning: Suicide, angst, language
Author's Note: I wanted to write something, but I didn't know what. And then I managed to type this. Enjoy!
Forgiveness
He wasn't the type to let go and move on. He brooded over the mistakes of his life bitterly, desperately searching for what reason they went so terribly wrong. Countless people tried to pull him out of the vicious cycle, certain it would lead to self-destruction. But the gods and goddesses of the heavens above stood idly, looking down upon him with eyes of despair. Savior of the world? He may be. However, that strength was only on the outside, leaving nothing left for his internal demons. He was doomed the moment he was born.
The streets were especially crowded that morning. People shot him dirty looks, gazed upon his filthy clothes with disgust. It wasn't like he had a choice; he needed to fight monsters in order to survive. Blood-stained the cloth may be, but that meant nothing about his persona. Not like they cared, anyway. They didn't know what the great hero Cloud Strife even looked like. They thought he was muscular like a bodybuilder, with a cold stare that would freeze monsters in their tracks. No one ever believed him to be who he truly was.
Ignoring the people giving him disgusted glances, he knocked on the door. "Who is this?" asked a gruff voice, obviously angry at being interrupted from something trivial.
"Strife Delivery Service," Cloud said. "Your total comes to two hundred gil."
"Hang on, kid," replied the man, digging out the money from a torn leather wallet. "There. Take it," he ordered, roughly grabbing the delicate package from the blond-haired man's hands. "Now get out of here."
Cloud sighed as he pocketed the gil, turning on his heel and walking down the cracked concrete steps. "Another day of being treated like shit," he muttered, blue eyes cast downwards to the pavement as he walked. While the outside was apathetic, inside a storm of torment and sadness was raging and building and growing stronger with every passing moment. Things never seemed to look up for long. Sure, his family lived a comfortable life, and the money he earned was more than enough to support them. His Geostigma had been healed, as well as Denzel's. Marlene got to spend more time with her adoptive father, Barret, and Tifa insisted on keeping the bar open, despite having no need to.
Noting that he had no more packages to deliver that day (business had been slower than normal lately), he took a stroll around one of the local parks. Although the trees were still somewhat sickly in appearance, children and teenagers and occasionally adults sat under the meager shade, enjoying the breeze and looking at the sky: things that they could have never done while Shinra still ruled.
Inside, voices continued to torment him. He knew he should get help but remained reluctant nonetheless. Worthless. Worthless. Worthless. You deserve to be dead, bastard. You have no right to live.Repeating something so many times made a person believe the words, and Cloud was beginning to succumb to it. A heavy feeling settled in his chest, and he found it somewhat more difficult than normal to breathe. Seeking solace from the sky, he found a secluded area and just gazed into the intense, cloudless blue.
It was only when sundown approached did he realize the time and what he desperately needed to do. Still sitting, he slid a black cell phone from his pants pocket and dialed the all-too-familiar numbers of Tifa's cell phone. After all, the phone in the bar was for the Strife Delivery Service. It rang once...twice...three times, and then he knew it was time to leave a voicemail.
"Tifa...I won't be coming home tonight. I have some...deliveries to make."
To the Lifestream, he thought bitterly, shutting the phone. It was to be the last message, the last time that anyone heard his voice. He was unsure of what to say, and he knew that Tifa would be calling back any time now to ask him what he meant by that. In that case, he knew that he no longer needed to hesitate. Time was of the essense, as they say, and if he would hear Tifa's voice again, his plans would be thwarted.
He made his way to a nearby hotel room. Asking to stay a night, he hastily gave the woman all the gil he made on the deliveries that day, grabbed the key, and nearly sprinted up the steps. Upon entering the disgusting room, he locked the door behind him. The carpet was stained, and it appeared as though the sink wasn't clean. After he had got done with his business, they would be even dirtier than before.
For a few moments, he sat down on a couch and watched the news on a small television, and he wondered briefly if he was making the right decision. He was leaving so much behind...family and friends. He hoped that Tifa would be able to move on, unlike himself, and find herself a nice husband, who took care of the children just as he did. He wished that Denzel would forgive him for the decision, yet he wanted him to understand why.
The thought still fresh in his mind, he found a piece of crumpled up paper and a pen with barely any ink. He scribbled something on it hastily, the emotions inside growing too fierce and feral for him to control. He left the note on the wooden end table, leaving his wallet (which contained pictures of himself, family and friends) beside it.
He decided that the bathroom would be a decent place, as it was already dirty anyway. Out of his left pocket he pulled out a sharp pocketknife, which was to be a gift to Denzel when he got older. It was a lucky charm from Zack, and it disgusted him for a moment to even think of killing himself with that. But, he could no longer see any light in his life. His thoughts, clouded by harsh, unbelievable emotions, caused him to believe it. Worthless. Worthless. Worthless. You deserve to be dead, bastard. You have no right to live.
He repeated the words outloud to himself, committing himself to it with every repetition. Suddenly, he stopped talking to himself and looked out the window. A full moon gazed down upon him, and he was reminded of the loneliness that was his life. He pressed the sharp metal blade to his skin, made a deep cut from elbow to wrist.
Outsider.
Cut.
Liar.
Cut.
Disgrace.
Cut.
Failure.
Reflecting on that last word, he took the blade across his throat, slicing open the great, life-giving artery and vein. He vaguely noticed it was hard to breathe, but he had already lost so much blood, he didn't pay much attention to trivial details. His vision began to blur; he fell to the floor. Red liquid oozed from his body without end, the wounds too severe to clot. Shutting his eyes, he suddenly felt warm. That was the last thing he felt.
One week later...Cloud had stayed longer than he had said, and a hotel employee found his dead body. He called the police; the death had been labeled suicide. Tifa had broke down into tears upon being told the news via the phone. Denzel was broken-hearted. Marlene refused to believe it.
Tifa continued to sob as the casket was lowered into the ground. Clasped in her hands was the pocketknife, his wallet, and the note. Denzel looked away, crying silently. Marlene watched in disbelief, Barret's hand on his shoulder. Tears even escaped from his eyes, and even Cid's. Vincent stared solemnly, and Red XIII resisted the urge to howl. The hero had fallen.
Tifa...if you're reading this, I'm already dead. Tell Denzel to stay strong and Marlene to keep her chin up. Find yourself a nice guy, someone who loved you as much as I did. I always loved you, but I was too afraid to admit it. Never did find what I was looking for. Never found forgiveness for what I did. Good bye, Tifa.
Cloud Strife