A.N. I don't really have much to say, I suppose. This is just my way of tying up loose ends. It has been nearly three years since I last posted something on and I think that it was awfully rude of me not to put in my fondest farewell. I don't know why I stopped writing fanfiction, I just no longer derived joy from it. So I stopped, plain and simple. But it was just the other day when I ran across an old story that I had posted here, Accidental Incest, and was disturbed by how much it sucked. Yes, it sucked. So I decided to write a quick story that would not only bring closure to the sojourn of Ash Ketchum, but also (hopefully) elevate me to the ranks of the mediocre authors... or at least mediocre punctuation. Heh, a man can hope. Alas, this will be my last story. So I give you all a final farewell.
Letters From Home
By: Jarzard
The path, as well-used as always, stretched onwards through the woods, its end the final stop before his destination. He didn't know how many times he had been down this path—it seemed like more than he could count—yet he knew it had only been a handful. Five or six was his best guess, but he knew he could never forget it. It was a defining part of him, this path, the path that led to Viridian. He was Ash Ketchum from Pallet, a pokemon trainer. And yet, when people thought of Pallet, they thought of this road, not his home town. Maybe the reason that this dirt path represented Pallet was because Pallet was famous only for its experts in the field of pokemon, and, when people thought of pokemon experts, they didn't want to think of them being surrounded by rattats and pidgeys. Maybe that was why, but he doubted it. It was probably ignorance. Sighing, he continued his slow, measured pace towards Viridian, towards home.
He didn't know how many years it had been since he had last visited his mother, he didn't know if he cared. This past year he had started to receive letters from her at every new pokemon center he visited—every letter the same. After he received the second, his resolve had nearly broken. It was only when he was preparing to sign his name did his hand hesitate, did he rethink his actions. Quickly, he crumpled the paper, dropped it into a nearby houseplant, and walked out of the center and out of the town.
The memory of the beginning of this chapter of his life was a blur—a mix of emotion and strain. That's what he blamed it on, it wasn't a mistake, it wasn't the actions of child who always got his way, it was only what he felt had to be done at the time. He didn't regret it, not really. He just couldn't let himself fall into despair, it would have made all his efforts a waste. So he had kept moving, not allowing himself to think of all that waited for him at home. But, in the end, it had been too much. The isolation, the memories, the letters... It had all overwhelmed him and brought him to his knees. So now here he was, on the road to Viridian—the last stop before Pallet.
The backpack was large, larger than any that had come before it. It had been an impulse purchase the last time he went shopping, and yet it had proven to be worth far more than its weight in gold. But now, due mostly to his present state of poverty, it was filled almost entirely with the letters. There were a lot of them, some old, some new, but all had been kept to be read on the rainy days when he couldn't find the motivation to keep moving, to forge ahead. They were all the same, but each different. Every letter had a slightly different feel, each one was on whatever scrap of paper had been convenient, written with whichever pen still had ink. When she had heard the news of his disappearance, she must have scrambled to write them, trying to make sure that he received at least one of the notes. It was touching in a way, yet it was also naïve. That was Deliah though, naïve and pure—so unlike her son. But now, his feet once again found purchase on this old road, winding their way toward his hometown. It made him sick, so, in order to calm himself, he shrugged off his back pack and opened it up, rummaging inside and finally pulling out one of the ragged pieces of paper. Slowly he stopped, rereading the message once again. With a ragged sigh, he dropped his backpack and opened his hand, letting the paper flutter away on the gentle breeze. Turning slightly, he watched it blow away, watched it disappear into the trees. With tears slowly falling from his eyes, he turned away from where the paper had blown and walked into the trees himself, leaving his backpack of notes, leaving the mass-produced plea of his mother, the plea that read, "Ash, please give up, you'll never make it. Please, please come home. Your friends are here, waiting for you. Come back to me, my baby, give up on your childish dream. Come back to me."