Past Imperfect
Disclaimer: Seifer belongs to Square. So do all the other FF 8 characters. Otherwise, they belong to me and you can't have them!
Chapter One Concrete Angle
Through the wind and the rain, She stands hard as a stone, In a world that she can't rise above, But her dreams give her wings, And she flies to a place, Where she's loved, Concrete angle
Martina McBride
I as sit here, alone, and think about life, I wonder why things turned out as they did. Could I have done something to alter the outcome, or was I destined to be stepped over, forgotten? They wouldn't have gotten anywhere without me, but none of them will mention my name.
My name's Seifer. I'm just about as famous as Squall Leonhart or Rinoa Heartilly/Caraway/Leonhart, or whoever she's pretending to be now. My name will never be honored like theirs, the Sorceress and her Knight. My name will be cursed, used as an idol for punk gangs and psychotic druggies.
You might know me by one of my various nicknames. Bully. Asshole. Traitor. Sorceress' lapdog. Those are just names and ames don't make who you are.
My life starts about 19 years ago on a windy night. My mom had to give birth to me in our shack with the help of our neighbor. My dad was out drunk again, probably with a prostitute from the local tavern.
So I was born. Like any other kid, I guess. I was named too. Seifer. Great. Whoopee. At first I was just like a new toy. The whole "Look at his tiny toes and hands and fingers and feet and every other tiny thing on a baby." Shit, I was a baby. Things are tiny on a baby. Nothing new there.
Anyway, things got old fast and I had to begin a life of my own. It isn't like Momma didn't try hard. She did. The only person in this damn world who every really cared for me. We never had any money, and Mom spent most of her time doing odd jobs around town, so I had to find other ways to keep myself occupied.
Mom made all my clothes from scraps of cloth her employers gave her. As part of her job, she did a lot of sewing for the wives of wealthy military men. Her work rivaled that of any name brand from Esthar, but the only thing that guaranteed sales was the cheap labor and the low price.
She tried her best to keep me clothed and fed, but there was only so much respectable work a woman in Deling could find.
Dad, of course, was a bastard in the purest meaning of the word. He always came around when Mom got back on her feet, when she had made enough money to feed us regularly. He would come on to her, like she was one of his whores, whiskey on his breath. He would force my pretty mother to give in to him right there in our living room, tears and all, then beat the crap out of her. I spent most of my childhood shivering on the stairs, praying Dad wouldn't kill Mom. I hoped that, just like a toy he'd get tired of her, like he had gotten tired of me. His social position never allowed him to.He was a General in the Galbadia army and a lot of pressure was placed on him to uphold a solid family life. He had a wife and a kid, so it wouldn't be right to abandon them. Especially during the Sorceress Wars.
We had so many chances to leave, but Mom never took them. When ever I questioned about why we stayed, she'd get mad at me and say, "Seifer, if I leave, he will have nothing left. I'm all he has. We are." I was too young to question any further.
When the Sorceress War started up, sewing jobs for Mom became few and far between. The poor people who lived around us paid Mom in food stuffs and other materials for small services. Although nobody had anything to share, they all knew we had no other means of survival.Hard times had fallen on everyone.
Except for Dad. In a time when all the world was fighting for survival, he and his soldiers prospered. After a successful military campaign, the company would return to Deling to celebrate and the young men would bring their families to parties and forget about the war for a short while.
As he was the general, he was forced to bring his wife. Once every few months, he would stop by our hovel bearing gifts. He would present Mom with a dress made for the silk of rare bugs and beg her for forgiveness. Mom's eyes would tear up and she would cave. Every damn time.
After the parties ended and a new battle began, Mom would pawn her dress for the fraction of its original price and buy us a few necessities. Sometimes, if she had any extra money, she would buy me some candy or a nice toy, or some art supplies for herself.
Mom had been an aspiring artist before she married Dad, with prospects in several well known art galleries. She had even helped some man in Dollet design some trading cards for the local giftshop.
She could have been famous, but an older Galbadian solider had wandered into town and seduced her with his promises and dreams.
My Grandma always told me she tried to discourage her from acting so hasty, by my mom was too strong a person. So she left and was destroyed.
My Grandma was one of my few rays of sunshine. She used to visit when I was really young, back when my Dad was just starting out. He would take Mom out to parties and Grandma would watch me. Whenever he got promoted to general, everything changed. Under his hasty actions, his troops were ambushed and many of his friends died. He escaped unharmed. Not because he fought bravely, but because he sacrificed his squadron and ran.
He came home and bragged about how brilliant his strategy was, and how the enemy never saw it coming. Then the drinking started. Grandma left and told my mom she wasn't going to visit any more. She said she couldn't watch the horror unfold in our house, but if we ever needed a place to go we were welcome at her house, in Timber.
Mom said that drinking was Dad's way of coping with his pain. I didn't ever dare argue, because she believed he was a good man. She said that he had seen horrors that a boy like me could never imagine. He had things to deal with that could scare me to death. And that he needed her more than ever.
When I was four, I had my first solid memory, the basis for dreams for years to come. I would walk through town and see so many happy families together. They were always laughing and holding hands. The mothers always had nice puffy dresses and little bags. The fathers always had gold pocket watches on chains stuck in their front pockets, and the children were always sucking on a lollipop bigger then their heads.
It was like a rubber stamp that you could use on most any family in Deling. I never wanted to be a part of them though. They were fake, I felt. They where weak people who were afraid to show real feelings and hid behind their happy masks.
That was the one good thing about Dad. He never hid his feelings. He always told you exactly what he felt you were. On good days I was "Spineless crybaby" and on a bad day, well that list could go on and on. There were many more bad days. I always thought I was being raised strong. That I was blessed and that other people were missing out on the great lessons General Almasy had to teach.
As the war picked up speed, Dad found himself being stuck in Deling for strategy meetings. His life was good for moral, the government decided; he had to stay away from immediate danger. So, unfortunately, we had more visits from him.
We moved uptown and were guaranteed three meals a day, but that was hardly worth the price we had to pay. Mom was put up on a pedestal and was constantly being pushed into the public's view.
Dad stopped drinking, but starting beating Mom more regularly. He always planned the beatings, which, to me, seems worse then acting out of passion. Still, he couldn't have his superiors suspecting him. She always had to be present at all of the formal gatherings, and she had to look happy.
I got my first beating when I was almost five. A detachment under his command had been brutally defeated because of his failed strategy and he was furious. Not that it mattered. I eventually learned Dad didn't need a reason to be mad. That night he and Mom had a dinner to attend, so he took his blind rage out on me.
He walked into the house and took off his belt, watery eyes focused on me.
He advanced on me. I kept quiet.
He smiled. "So, I'm going make you drop your pants and bend over. Then I'm gonna take this belt," he cracked it loudly, "and whip you till you bleed. The metal part here," He pointed to the buckle, "will bite into your skin and rip the flesh away. You'll fell like ya' got stung at first, so ya'll tell yourself not to scream, not to give me the pleasure of hearing you wail." He smiled as my eyes grew wide. "But ya'll cave as the pain builds. Ya'll give in. They always do."
I stood petrified, afraid to breath. My eyes scanned the room, looking for an escape. He glared and snapped the belt again. "Mah anger is growing son. You won't like me when I'm angery. Now do it."
Scared, I pulled down my pants and turned to face the wall the couch stood on. Bending over, I grabbed onto the rips in the fabric and held on tightly. I heard the belt whistle in the air as it landed on my behind, making a perfect welt across both cheeks. Then he made another above the first, then one below it.
My hands ached from the stress I put on them, trying to pull myself into the tattered holes. When he stopped, I tried to talk. He stopped me.
"Don't worry, boy. I ain't done. I'm waiting for the welts to rise, then I'll finish. This way, the pain will be more intense."
After a few more minutes, he began again, the belt swishing and whistling over and over again. After a while, I gave up on holding my sanity and let instinct take over.
He left me passed out on the floor and went to find my Mom. They didn't need to hire a baby sitter that night. I wasn't going anywhere.
Mom cried for me when they got home. She cried and rocked me back and forth. She promised me we would get out of there. She told me how sorry she was for letting this happen to me. Carefully she applied aloe to my bloodied bottom and wrapped scraps of cloth around my wound.
He came by the next day to see her. She refused to let him in, so he broke down our weak little door. Then he hit her. I'll always remember the fight they had. The last fight they had.
He surged toward me, like a tidal wave. He raised his hand and brought it down on my cheek so hard that I saw stars. His fist came at me again, but stopped when Mom stepped between us.
"Stop, you'll hurt him." Her eyes were a fire, never mind this would earn her an awful beating when he was through with me.
"You're forgetting your place, woman. He is my child." She never dared to stand up to him before. Or maybe she never had a reason.
"Just don't hit him" Mom loves me.
"This is my house; I'll do as I want."
"No! I'll stop you!" Mom was standing up for me. Against Diablos himself.
"Like hell you will!" He'll hit her too.
"I won't let you hurt him!" Love
"Get out of my way!" hurts
"No!" but how could
"NOW!" I help her if
"I won't!" I could
"I'll kill you both!" not even move, I had
"Run, Seifer," to stay and help
"Damn you, this is my house!" mom I
Then everything fell together. He punched her and her head snapped back. Her eyes rolled back into her head and she let out a small moan as she slumped to the floor. I crawled to her side and tried to help her sit up. She was barely breathing her eyes were fluttering frantically as she whispered. I leaned down so I could hear her, but was roughly jerked up by the color of my homemade shirt.
"Get the hell away from her, boy!" He yelled at me. "She deserved what she got!"
I stared into his emotionless eyes. He didn't care that she could die if we didn't get help. He didn't care that he was committing murder. He didn't care that he had destroyed the only person who could ever forgive him. I lowered my head in submission. I would not let Mom's sacrifice be in vain. He slowly placed me on the ground, sensing my defeat. I silently said goodbye to my mom, knowing that this was the last time I would see her alive.
Desperately, I tried to come up with a reason for his actions. With men like him, love was only about one thing: possession. And like a dog, when your possession starts thinking on its own, it must be destroyed.
I had seen our neighbors kill some of their possessions. Like their dog Luke. His master kept kicking him and one day Luke decided he was fed up with it and bit his master. Convinced he was acting in the right of the law, he tied Luke to a stake in the yard and shot him. I connected Luke's death with that of my mother.
I guess when he met Mom, he found her to be just as strong and determined as himself. This made her desirable. Her independence made her a challenge to control. Once he had her in his grimy grasp, he didn't want her any more.
It was the same thing with war. After any battle was fought, any enemy defeated, he lost interest in the spoils, even if we sorely needed the money.
I spent the next few weeks after Mom's death hiding from that man. At my mom's funeral he actually had the nerve to cry. He told everyone she "fell down the stairs." They all nodded sympathetically and comforted him. They all shook their heads and said "Poor clumsy woman. Not the first time she's fallen down. We all knew this day would come."
Damn them all. How could they believe him? They had seen my mother. They had seen the scars all over her body. They had seen tears in her eyes she refused to shed. They heard the fear in her voice every time she spoke of Dad. Yet they believed him now. They believed my beautiful, graceful mother had fallen down the stairs. What had he ever done to earn their trust? Not a damned one of them deserved to be at Mom's funeral, but there wasn't anything I could do about it.
In the weeks to follow, I was beaten more than regularly. How it was done depended on the occasion. If he was tired and it was a Monday, I got belting. However, if he had any energy, it was a run around-the-house-throw-what-ever-comes-to-hand-and-scar-your-son-for-life kind of beating. Those didn't come too often, but when they did, I always wondered if I would end up like Mom.
At first, he never showed any emotion. It was like he wasn't there. His face would be expressionless like he was possessed by some demented spirit. I followed his example and attempted to remove myself. The pain would fade as I took myself away as he hit me. I went to where I could talk to my mom. She would hold me and cry for me. After time, he grew infuriated at my lack of pain. I had broken him. No longer was he emotionless. He would yell as he hit me, sometimes crying, sometimes laughing. Depending on how removed I was. He began to insult me as he did the deed.
"You stupid little boy. You can't do anything right. You stupid boy. What's the matter, to stupid to stand up for yourself? Chicken wuss." I would just hang my head and accept the beatings, recording every sight smell and taste. Planning my revenge.
Once in a while, I would go to the cemetery to put rose petals on my mom's grave. I couldn't afford to buy a whole rose, and Hyne knows that man would never give me money. Still, I knew she would appreciate the offer. Not like that man ever did anything for her.
Her plot was decorate with a stone angle with an up turned face. Her name was written on a polished rock, a broken heart that the world forgot. As rain fell like tears, I found myself perched on her pedestal, sheltered under her wings. Emotion overcame me as rain fell around me and I cried along with the heavens.
Eventually, he had to go back to work and decided that he had to take me. Guess he didn't trust me to be there when he got back. The only time he acted like a father was when he taught me to fight. I was training with a gun. Not too good for short ranges, but it could work. I'd be the six year old sniper. Great. I already was planning my first victim. Every word he told me, every stance he taught me was soaked in. He never thought his now brilliant little boy was plotting his murder. I wasn't taught to hold a gun. It was almost taller then me. Instead he placed it on a rock or a pile of rocks and had me aim at things from a distance. This was still 'useful' to him because I could be his assassin, his secret cover.
I learned to brace myself for the recoil, how to squeeze, not pull, the trigger. I learned how to lead a moving target. I learned how to kill a living being. I learned all this in a matter of weeks.
I couldn't wait for my first mission. In fact, I dreamed of it. I could see my father raiding another town and killing innocent people. Then there was me, hiding in the brush behind him. Him signaling me to shot the leader of whatever group he was torturing. Me adjusting the cross hairs till they were set on the back of his head. Then BANG! Game Over.
Unfortunately, it never escalated to that point. A week after my first day on the field, dear old dad was killed by another sniper who apparently had his own loved ones to avenge. I thought I owed that sniper one. A man named Kinease. But whoops, right after he killed darling daddy dearest he was chased by my Dad's personal guard and he stepped on a mine and blew himself up. I felt no pain or sorrow for the loss of either man. My heart had already begun building a wall to protect its self. I didn't care.
I had loved and lost and I couldn't even tie my own shoes yet. I had watched murder, felt pain and killed. I still wet the bed. I have lost both parents. I had war scars. I still sucked my thumb. Everyone has their problems, so I'm not complaining. People make mistakes. Stuff happens. Life is a game, you win some and you loose some. I know I had better start winning soon.
heh. sorry about the Hulk quote. Couldn't help it.