Well, I decided to get off my fat butt and right some fanfiction. I've been wanting to for a while now, but I couldn't think of anything. Well, I finally did, and here it is. Chapter one. So read it, tell me what you think, and give me some suggestions and stuff. Chapter two will be out shortly. ^_^
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For two years, this child has lived with me. Small and fragile, he rarely shows much emotion and lives silently. At first, this really scared me; I thought something was seriously wrong with him. He was mute for nearly two weeks. That was three years ago. He was five years old.
Now, he only talks when necessary. It doesn't matter how frustrated or angry I get with him, he just won't talk unless he thinks that he needs to. His teachers have told me that he's a very bright child, but he won't cooperate or apply himself. He won't even talk to them or fellow students. I send him to school anyway. I'm sure he gets teased and taunted, but since he shows no emotion, I can't tell if he's that disturbed by it. I guess he isn't.
When I look at him, into his deep, blue eyes, I see intelligence, but I also see sadness and loneliness.
I call him "Kid" since I don't know what his real name is. Whenever I ask him, he doesn't answer me. I used to ask him every day, then once a week, and now I ask whenever I think of it.
He's a good kid though. I love him like he's my own son.
~~~
"You'll be okay by yourself, right?" Kid must be the maturest kid I've ever known. A parent's dream. I could leave him at home for days at a time and he would be fine all by himself. I must have asked him that question a million times and have gotten the same, wordless answer.
The small boy nodded, unsmiling. He was reading a book that was rather mature for an eight-year-old and this must have been his third or fourth time through it.
"Alright. See you tomorrow then. Don't stay up too late or I'll pound you when I get back." Being nineteen and a popular male, I'm out partying often. I like to consider myself a good kid though: no alcohol, drugs, or sex. I love my Kid too much.
I left the house and sped off in my red pick-up truck.
~~~
I got home late that night, around three AM, and checked on Kid as I always do. He had fallen asleep on the couch, reading, right where I left him earlier that night. Usually, I find him asleep in his bed, occasionally in my bed, and every once in a while, he'll still be awake.
I scooped him up and took him down the hallway of our apartment, on the third floor of the complex. Laying him on his bed, I set his book on the wooden nightstand. I looked down at him and I realized something. Even though I provide for him, care for him, and am good to him, the expression on his face was that of untold suffering. As if in the short, eight years of his life, he's seen and heard tragedies that kids should never ever be exposed to.
I turned out the light and left the room. He prefers me to keep the door open in case he has an occasional nightmare and wants to crawl into bed with me.
I crossed the hallway, went into my room, and crashed for the night.
~~~
Groggily, I realized that I was being shaken awake.
"Zidane, wake up. Please." It was Kid. Turning over, I found that it was also five AM.
"Kid, it's five in the morning, what's wrong?" I slowly tried to sit up and was quickly pushed down again by Kid's small, almost puny body.
"Nightmare," he said softly and simply as he latched onto me. I gently hugged him to me and started petting his strange, silky, metallic hair, which he insisted on keeping long and flowing, like a girl's. I didn't ask about his dream. I never do. I always wait until the next day. When both of us are more awake. Both of us eventually fell back to sleep.
~~~
"So what was that dream about?" I asked him the next day after I had gotten home from school.
He paused, then started speaking. "I was in a big, dark room. I was alone. You were gone, but I knew I had saved you from whatever got me. I was dead. I was crying and I couldn't stop."
I looked up from my math book, startled. Kid never cries. Never. I left my books and took him up in my arms. I have never witnessed him shed one tear. Not even when he cuts his finger or bruises his knee. I'll bet if he broke his arm, he still wouldn't cry.
"...Zidane?"
"Yeah, Kid?"
"My name is Kuja."
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For two years, this child has lived with me. Small and fragile, he rarely shows much emotion and lives silently. At first, this really scared me; I thought something was seriously wrong with him. He was mute for nearly two weeks. That was three years ago. He was five years old.
Now, he only talks when necessary. It doesn't matter how frustrated or angry I get with him, he just won't talk unless he thinks that he needs to. His teachers have told me that he's a very bright child, but he won't cooperate or apply himself. He won't even talk to them or fellow students. I send him to school anyway. I'm sure he gets teased and taunted, but since he shows no emotion, I can't tell if he's that disturbed by it. I guess he isn't.
When I look at him, into his deep, blue eyes, I see intelligence, but I also see sadness and loneliness.
I call him "Kid" since I don't know what his real name is. Whenever I ask him, he doesn't answer me. I used to ask him every day, then once a week, and now I ask whenever I think of it.
He's a good kid though. I love him like he's my own son.
~~~
"You'll be okay by yourself, right?" Kid must be the maturest kid I've ever known. A parent's dream. I could leave him at home for days at a time and he would be fine all by himself. I must have asked him that question a million times and have gotten the same, wordless answer.
The small boy nodded, unsmiling. He was reading a book that was rather mature for an eight-year-old and this must have been his third or fourth time through it.
"Alright. See you tomorrow then. Don't stay up too late or I'll pound you when I get back." Being nineteen and a popular male, I'm out partying often. I like to consider myself a good kid though: no alcohol, drugs, or sex. I love my Kid too much.
I left the house and sped off in my red pick-up truck.
~~~
I got home late that night, around three AM, and checked on Kid as I always do. He had fallen asleep on the couch, reading, right where I left him earlier that night. Usually, I find him asleep in his bed, occasionally in my bed, and every once in a while, he'll still be awake.
I scooped him up and took him down the hallway of our apartment, on the third floor of the complex. Laying him on his bed, I set his book on the wooden nightstand. I looked down at him and I realized something. Even though I provide for him, care for him, and am good to him, the expression on his face was that of untold suffering. As if in the short, eight years of his life, he's seen and heard tragedies that kids should never ever be exposed to.
I turned out the light and left the room. He prefers me to keep the door open in case he has an occasional nightmare and wants to crawl into bed with me.
I crossed the hallway, went into my room, and crashed for the night.
~~~
Groggily, I realized that I was being shaken awake.
"Zidane, wake up. Please." It was Kid. Turning over, I found that it was also five AM.
"Kid, it's five in the morning, what's wrong?" I slowly tried to sit up and was quickly pushed down again by Kid's small, almost puny body.
"Nightmare," he said softly and simply as he latched onto me. I gently hugged him to me and started petting his strange, silky, metallic hair, which he insisted on keeping long and flowing, like a girl's. I didn't ask about his dream. I never do. I always wait until the next day. When both of us are more awake. Both of us eventually fell back to sleep.
~~~
"So what was that dream about?" I asked him the next day after I had gotten home from school.
He paused, then started speaking. "I was in a big, dark room. I was alone. You were gone, but I knew I had saved you from whatever got me. I was dead. I was crying and I couldn't stop."
I looked up from my math book, startled. Kid never cries. Never. I left my books and took him up in my arms. I have never witnessed him shed one tear. Not even when he cuts his finger or bruises his knee. I'll bet if he broke his arm, he still wouldn't cry.
"...Zidane?"
"Yeah, Kid?"
"My name is Kuja."