Heres just a little something from me to you. awww.. don't you feel
special.
Disclaimer: I dun own it. Parings: 2+4 (just a lil bit.) Rating: PG (it really isn't bad at all.. I mean.. I wouldn't want a 6 year old to read it but.) Notes: its in duo's pov, (not that you can really tell..) about quatre. (I actually wrote this for a language arts thing. About a year ago though- so yeah, I had to keep it all clean and stuff. I just felt like typing it up.)
WAR
The music echoes through the halls. A sad, melancholy piano/violin duet.
I didn't really like the music, it sounded too classical, but he does. Or, at least I think he does.
He would tell me sometimes, that it was in his heritage to like classical music. He would joke that his father listened to classical music, as did his father before that too.
He actually didn't listen to classical music all that much. He played the violin. A lot.
It was surprising, that he even had one; he said it was passed down through his family. Violins were incredibly rare to find in these years.
His violin was beautiful. It was deep, dark mahogany and seemed to shin even in the dark. It was glasslike, almost reflective.
But the beauty of the violin served it no justice. The sound that came ringing out of it was more beautiful then any painting, any flower, any scene. No one, not with year's pf practice could produce a sound so elegantly mystifying. He played with his soul, not the bow and his fingers. The music was embodied within his heart, and he would only use the violin as a way to let it escape.
I use to wonder, late at night when his music would echo throughout the entire area of where we were staying that night, how he learned to play. There never seemed to be any time for him to have learned how to play. We were both young.
And we were both involved as gorilla fighters in an intense war by the time we were 15.
We often fought side by side. We would usually try to seek out a main target, but sometimes we would end up having to sacrifice the lives of millions of innocent people.
It was crucial that we fought though, crucial that we killed. We knew that if we didn't, that civilization, as we knew it would befall a state of complete disaster.
We would go out and kill guilty and innocent people alike. Then go back to our safe house.
When we were home he would immediately take out his violin and play the most soulful, melancholy songs. He would make songs up as he played, he never wrote anything down, just played.
He wouldn't cry, wouldn't get depressed. It took me a while to figure out that the music he played was his way of mourning. Each song he played he played for the souls he killed in battle.
Now the war is over for the most part. At least our part in the war is over.
I choose not to fight anymore.
He can't.
He broke.
Out safe house was bombed one night. We barely had time to escape, but we managed. But his violin was destroyed.
And he couldn't get a new one.
I never realized how important it was to him. He was so mature, even for his age. Its ironic how someone forced into adulthood at such a young age, and someone so mature, even for the circumstances, could have been so dependent on something so simple as a violin.
He was too kind, softhearted. Much more then I was. Much more then I ever though he was.
Now he cries, he cries for all the people he killed, he cries for everyone, he cries for people he hasn't even affected.
He never speaks. He never does anything, except barely eat and sleep. And cry.
He's locked in his head. Locked in a deep dark abyss of guilt, sorrow. pain.
Even if he does move, he always looks too distant, staring off into oblivion. His eyes are like deep sea-green pools of depression, sadness.
I cant imagine what its like in his head. I wonder if he has any rational thoughts, or if it's just a myriad of confused, troubled thoughts.
I wonder if the classical music ii play for him helps him or mocks him, as if it hurts him to know that he will never be able to play his violin again.
I wonder, but I'll never know.
His mind is scarred form the war.
I know how unfair it is. Some people would call it justice. They say that he deserves it, deserves the pain for the people he killed.
I know it isn't fair.
I know he never wanted to be in the war in the first place.
He's in pain, he takes in the pain of everyone, al he killed, all he hurt, even the people he doesn't know.
Those he killed aren't in any pain.
Is it fair that he suffers endlessly?
He took all their pain as his own. How he suffers on their behalf.
He doesn't deserve all the pain. He's suffered enough already. He didn't want to kill; he was forced into it all.
I stand up and turn off the music and sit right back down in front of him.
"I hope you know I love you Quatre."
I've killed before.
I've had people I love die before.
He doesn't deserve this suffering.
**BANG**
I close my eyes, placing the barrel of the gun to my own head.
"I hate war."
**BANG**
The sound echoes shortly though the halls only to be followed by deathly silence.
Disclaimer: I dun own it. Parings: 2+4 (just a lil bit.) Rating: PG (it really isn't bad at all.. I mean.. I wouldn't want a 6 year old to read it but.) Notes: its in duo's pov, (not that you can really tell..) about quatre. (I actually wrote this for a language arts thing. About a year ago though- so yeah, I had to keep it all clean and stuff. I just felt like typing it up.)
WAR
The music echoes through the halls. A sad, melancholy piano/violin duet.
I didn't really like the music, it sounded too classical, but he does. Or, at least I think he does.
He would tell me sometimes, that it was in his heritage to like classical music. He would joke that his father listened to classical music, as did his father before that too.
He actually didn't listen to classical music all that much. He played the violin. A lot.
It was surprising, that he even had one; he said it was passed down through his family. Violins were incredibly rare to find in these years.
His violin was beautiful. It was deep, dark mahogany and seemed to shin even in the dark. It was glasslike, almost reflective.
But the beauty of the violin served it no justice. The sound that came ringing out of it was more beautiful then any painting, any flower, any scene. No one, not with year's pf practice could produce a sound so elegantly mystifying. He played with his soul, not the bow and his fingers. The music was embodied within his heart, and he would only use the violin as a way to let it escape.
I use to wonder, late at night when his music would echo throughout the entire area of where we were staying that night, how he learned to play. There never seemed to be any time for him to have learned how to play. We were both young.
And we were both involved as gorilla fighters in an intense war by the time we were 15.
We often fought side by side. We would usually try to seek out a main target, but sometimes we would end up having to sacrifice the lives of millions of innocent people.
It was crucial that we fought though, crucial that we killed. We knew that if we didn't, that civilization, as we knew it would befall a state of complete disaster.
We would go out and kill guilty and innocent people alike. Then go back to our safe house.
When we were home he would immediately take out his violin and play the most soulful, melancholy songs. He would make songs up as he played, he never wrote anything down, just played.
He wouldn't cry, wouldn't get depressed. It took me a while to figure out that the music he played was his way of mourning. Each song he played he played for the souls he killed in battle.
Now the war is over for the most part. At least our part in the war is over.
I choose not to fight anymore.
He can't.
He broke.
Out safe house was bombed one night. We barely had time to escape, but we managed. But his violin was destroyed.
And he couldn't get a new one.
I never realized how important it was to him. He was so mature, even for his age. Its ironic how someone forced into adulthood at such a young age, and someone so mature, even for the circumstances, could have been so dependent on something so simple as a violin.
He was too kind, softhearted. Much more then I was. Much more then I ever though he was.
Now he cries, he cries for all the people he killed, he cries for everyone, he cries for people he hasn't even affected.
He never speaks. He never does anything, except barely eat and sleep. And cry.
He's locked in his head. Locked in a deep dark abyss of guilt, sorrow. pain.
Even if he does move, he always looks too distant, staring off into oblivion. His eyes are like deep sea-green pools of depression, sadness.
I cant imagine what its like in his head. I wonder if he has any rational thoughts, or if it's just a myriad of confused, troubled thoughts.
I wonder if the classical music ii play for him helps him or mocks him, as if it hurts him to know that he will never be able to play his violin again.
I wonder, but I'll never know.
His mind is scarred form the war.
I know how unfair it is. Some people would call it justice. They say that he deserves it, deserves the pain for the people he killed.
I know it isn't fair.
I know he never wanted to be in the war in the first place.
He's in pain, he takes in the pain of everyone, al he killed, all he hurt, even the people he doesn't know.
Those he killed aren't in any pain.
Is it fair that he suffers endlessly?
He took all their pain as his own. How he suffers on their behalf.
He doesn't deserve all the pain. He's suffered enough already. He didn't want to kill; he was forced into it all.
I stand up and turn off the music and sit right back down in front of him.
"I hope you know I love you Quatre."
I've killed before.
I've had people I love die before.
He doesn't deserve this suffering.
**BANG**
I close my eyes, placing the barrel of the gun to my own head.
"I hate war."
**BANG**
The sound echoes shortly though the halls only to be followed by deathly silence.