Okay, this idea occurred to me the other day as I was re-reading a section of the manga Bleach, and I realized that Bleach has a narrator. He only makes a few shows, but he's there. The first time is when the gang are hanging out for the first time, way back in the beginning, and the narrator says "Those events, though we didn't know it, would change our lives," or something like that, I don't have it in front of me. The second time is when Ichigo and Ulquiorra are having their final fight above the dome and Uryuu is there with Orihime. Orihime asks him to take her up to where the fight is, and the narrator says something along the lines of "I would come to regret it". This led me to believe that Uryuu is the narrator, and therefor one of, if not the only, eventual survivor, from which this story was born.

I know Caregiver hasn't been updated in a while, but it's coming, I promise.

Thanks,

Emmy

Everything started such a very long time ago.

We were just kids, really. Al of us were in way over our heads. We didn't think about it, didn't realize how much we were risking, or how much we had still to live for. Our instincts had taken over us all, and all that we knew was to fight.

I was the only one with any sense left.

It sounds selfish to say that, but its true. That's not to say I was unaffected, because I wasn't, but I was the one of us who was born with an intellect, a high IQ, a sense of logic. I was the one who survived.

The only one who survived.

It was such a long time ago. Well, not that long, at least to most people, but it has been many a lifetime for me. We were young, cocky, lucky bastards who had nothing but dumb luck on our side. We chose our ideals, worked for ourselves, and followed no rules. We were in the prime of our youth, and not even sixteen years old yet.

We were pitiful.

All of that youth, all of that potential, was lost in nothing more than a fool's mission to save those who were already dead. The dead are dead, what does it matter how they fare after their death? Why did he—why did all of us—care so much about the dead? With him, it was always about the friendship, the trust, the love. He couldn't understand how we, the living, were different from them, the dead. There was no difference to him, no line. I had always wondered why that was. Perhaps it was because he was never truly alive, had been dead from the moment he first saw Kuchiki Rukia.

I have many regrets, too many to count. Every day, every hour, practically every minute since I first became entangled with that man, I have had regrets. I wish I could say that I didn't blame him, but that would be a lie, and yet another regret. I have always blamed him, always hated him, for getting me into a fight that wasn't mine to be involved with. I have always wished that he was a worse person, so I wouldn't have felt bad turning him down. I have always hated myself for wishing that I could be such a lousy person as to let down another in need.

When we went to save Kuchiki, though, I had no fears. I was, as absurd as it sounds, happy. I was so glad that I was doing something with my talents, my gifts, my genius. It was a thrill to be able to use all of my strength, to have to use all of my strength. It was a feeling of relief. I was so glad to be of use, and, not only that, to be a key player. I was tired of being in the back all the time. I was so thrilled to be noticed.

I forgot to use my head.

Well, no, not entirely. I had reminders in the back of my head, little thoughts that kept popping up, reminding me that I had to think. When she was there, among the fighting and the blood and the death, she was not meant to be there. My head knew that she, of all people, was not one for the fight, for the blood, for the death. She was a person who should never see the dark side of people, should never have to. She was too good, and I knew it. But my emotions were in control, and I let her have her way. I knew that she was not fit, but I couldn't bring myself to stop her.

The same thing happened later, as well. When we went to save her, all that she could think of was him. When she asked me to help her, I could not refuse. I had to take her to him, and when I did, I regretted it within moments. He was bloodied, had a hole through his chest, and was somehow still fighting. He was alive on his emotions, not his brain. I respected him for that, I suppose. I still do. I wish that I could still live like that, on nothing but what I want on the most basic level. But I cannot, because I am cursed with a brain that will not let me live the unexamined life.

I let them die.

It was horrible. If I had only...

It's just another one of my long list of regrets. They're all the same, you know. I wish I'd, of wouldn't it have been nice if, or if only I had... it's a pathetic wish for something that will never happen, a waste of time an effort. It's a concentration on the problem, not the solution, and the solution is what is important. That I allowed my friends to die is not a part of the solution, it is a part of the problem, and is therefor not vital for me to think about.

I also dislike my own double standards. You may have noticed them by now, how I wish I could set myself apart and bee completely cold, heartless, intelligent. It is the thing that I have struggled with my entire life, whether my mind or my emotions come first. Not many have to face such a decision, but mine has always been there.

He didn't have this decision, his decisions always seemed to be made for him, a list of automatic answers that were all in response to what his heart wanted than what his mind demanded of his body needed. She was the same, always following her heart. And I suppose that they were wrong to do so, as now they're dead. I suppose that theirs is a truly tragic story, but I can't help but be envious of them. They had no choice, no other option, whereas I did, and do, and I will have to live with the choices that I have made. Their choices were not choices—their minds weren't involved in any way, at least not the way that mine has always been.

They were my friends, the best I ever had. It's a sad thing to admit, though, when you say that your best friend is a guy that you hate, along with practically his entire species, who you only knew for a few months to a year in your early to mid teens. But he was and always will be my best friend, the man who was able to make me feel.

I owe him, I suppose. He made me realize that I have a choice. I never thought I did until I met him. Before he came, I knew my place, I knew what I was. He changed everything, and gave me the knowledge of what I could have. And he ripped that away from me when he died. I learned a lot from him, and he from me. We fought together, and, given the chance, we would have died together. But no, he just had to die first and leave me lonely, without my best friend.

Alone with nothing but my memories and regrets to keep me company.