My Favorite Dreams are Nightmares ~ by Allora Atwater
A/N: Well, here it is, my first attempt at an FF8 fic. I hope it's not too bad, this is just a product of intense boredom and this omni-present sugar high of mine! I know it probably isn't real accurate, I made some stuff up. I realize that I probably needs a lot of revision, but I wanted to get the idea down before it left me. Pleeeeease R & R, I have no esteem, I need the opinion of others to keep me going!
Disclaimer: I have no imagination. I had to steal these characters from Square and put them at my own devices. If I get sued, I assure you, you will get no more than a few laundered dollars and some lint. Oh yeah, and the title belongs to Nine Inch Nails, I don't have enough imagination to come up with one on my own (fancy that).
***
It's funny, the way you feel when you think of the past sometimes. Some people get this warm, fuzzy, content feeling as they regale old stories about their childhood or first love. Others remember, with a certain amount of grief, times in their lives where they had to face a terrible, aching loss. What's funny to me is, I've never felt that way. In fact, I guess you could say I don't really understand the way I feel when I recall the events that led up to me being here, alone and searching. It's like my insides twist into some intricate knot, tides of both regret and resentment swelling in the pit of my stomach.
When I was a kid, housed at Edea's orphanage on the Cape of Good Hope, I think I took my situation much more seriously than the others. None of them had even the slightest recollection of ever having a family. I guess you can't really miss something you never had the chance to feel. As if it wasn't bad enough that my entire family was killed before my innocent virgin eyes, I was the last to show up at the orphanage, after everyone had already made friends and playmates, after everyone had been familiarized with their surroundings and their beloved 'Matron'. I immediately felt ostracized, without giving anyone a chance to prove me wrong.
Even as a toddler I was something of a hard-headed ox. I can vaguely hear someone saying to my father, with peculiar interest, "That boy of yours sure does take after his old man. He's even got your impetuous personality to boot!". Being only 3 or 4 at the time, I didn't understand a word that was spoken, which was a terrible pain for me, considering my eagerness to learn proper speech. It was so difficult to vocalize my needs when I didn't know the words to express them. I suppose that's where my determination spawned from. That explains one facet of my often toxic personality. Mother was always so patient and helpful, she would commend me when I succeeded and gently admonish me when I was being a little too persistent.
Mother… yes, I remember Mother. She was always so supportive of me, always encouraging me, even at such a young age, to do what I wanted and to follow my dreams. I used to sit in her lap during storms and watch, my eyes growing wide with amazement, as the heavens released loud, thunderous cries upon our barren earth. I was fascinated; the force, the power… the control. I envisioned myself as one day growing to resemble a storm; feared, respected, wide-eyed boys like myself watching me with wonder and admiration. That was my dream. And yet again, Mother praised me. That was where pride first flickered in the flame of my soul.
Father was a bit different. He was a very intimidating man, tall and muscular, chiseled features and a stern upper lip. He would never assume cordial mannerisms, but he taught me much of what I know today. He told me once, when I was merely 7, "Son, you need to know that a true friends demonstrates loyalty to a fault. You got friends that will back you no matter what your situation, then you'll be alright in the world. But be careful; not many people out there are honest. Make sure you invest your trust in the right men and you'll find happiness in life."
I had a little sister too, 5 years my junior. I always found her so fussy and needy, so dependent on Mother's care. It wasn't until the day I first held her that I began to feel any semblance of compassion towards the squealing infant. In my young, unsteady arms, she laid so quietly, so peacefully, as though lulled to sleep by the very beat of my heart. At once I felt an overwhelming urge to protect my younger sibling from any harm, dismissing any previous thoughts of her agitating cries.
Although I didn't have the perfect family, I was a happy child. I didn't know the harrowing terrors of war, death, destruction… hate. Cruelty to me was when Mother wouldn't allow me to have a cookie before dinner. Pain to me was when I fell to the ground and bruised my shins. Despair to me was not having the same toys as the other children. I was young and gullible, but I was content with my sweet oblivion. Bliss in ignorance as they say.
One night I was staying with the neighbors who had a boy about my age. I was never a very sociable child, always teasing others and gloating, running around pulling girls' pigtails and splattering mud on their frilly little skirts. But for some reason, I became very friendly with the boy next door, although I didn't show it in a conventional way. I remember arguing with him over a train set when his mother rushed in, her face as pale as the December snow. "Now children," she had said, trying to remain calm in the face of obvious danger. "Put your toys away and come with me. We need to stay together for awhile, as long as your boys are with me everything will be alright."
Even at my tender age, I knew the poor woman was lying through her teeth. Distant gunshots rang in my ears and the hairs on the nape of my neck prickled.
"I wanna go home!" I had demanded, authority crawling into my voice.
"Now there child, I can't have you going outside, it's not safe. I promise as soon as the bad men leave, you can see your mommy and daddy."
"No!" I cried, rushing to the window, banging my tiny fists against the glass. I saw my father talking to some soldiers, and from his uneasy stance, I realized that the soldiers were not trying to make peace. They were yelling harsh words at him, waving their guns threateningly. My father was standing firm ground, refusing to be swayed by their ramblings. That's when they shot him. Three bullets simultaneously lodging themselves into various regions of his rib cage. It had lasted for mere seconds but the image played in my mind for what seemed like years.
Pausing from my recollections of the distant past I shudder, drawing my long coat over my even longer frame. How long have I been outside, huddled against this stubborn stone wall? How long has it been since I've eaten? I rub my hands together, my mind wandering towards a part of my life I remember far more clearly.
I was 7, almost 8, sitting alone on a small little bed. The ocean could be seen from the window, gentle aquamarine waves lapping softly against the shore, dragging themselves back into their crystalline depths and lurching forward once again to partake of the sand. The doorknob turned quietly, and I tore my eyes away from the restless seas to check on my visitor.
It was the girl with the blonde ponytail, the one who had regarded me with such a quiet kindness when I first arrived through the doors. Her name was Quistis. Quistis Trepe.
"Dinner's ready." she announced primly. "Are yoo gonna come an' eat with us?"
"Why should I?" I snapped.
"Cause Matron wants yoo down to eat with us." She repeated, sounding almost exasperated.
"Well I don' wanna eat with yoo! Yoo guys are stoopid and I don't like any of yoo!"
She stuck her tongue out at me. "Well we don' like yoo either, but yoo better get your butt downstairs or Matron'll get real mad!"
She slammed the door.
I guess the reason I picked on the other children so much was because I was afraid to get close to them. I was afraid that they would find weaknesses in me that I had yet to discover. My dream of becoming fierce and powerful had only become more vivid after my experience back home. I was more determined than ever to be the best fighter I could be. I needed an outlet for all of my inner pain and trauma, so I demeaned the image of my father in order to motivate myself. I had forced myself to believe that Father had given up on Mother and my baby sister, Sylph, and that because he wasn't strong enough to take on the soldiers, my entire family had to suffer. Deep down, I knew how unrealistic this train of thought was, but it was the only thing that kept me going.
Of course, that resentment didn't lie solely within my father. The other children didn't understand the pain I was in. They had never known the meaning of family, therefore they would not sympathize in losing one. I figured that even if I did open up to one of them, I would get no consolation, I would feel no better. I was a fool for betraying those who could one day have become wonderful friends and powerful allies, but I was young and stupid. I found comfort in breaking others' spirits in order to salvage my own.
I stood up, brushing dirt off my coat. After Squall and the others had defeated Ultemecia, I was banished from Garden and thus had trouble getting a job elsewhere. I was fatigued, hungry and emotionally unsatisfied. Even if I had the chance to do things over again, I don't think I could have been able to change much. I don't like the path I've chosen for myself, but the truth is, I chose it and now I must follow it to the end.
I'm sure if I beg and plead for forgiveness from my arch nemesis, I could possibly regain entrance to Balamb Garden. Possibly. But I have more dignity at stake than that. Although my reputation is tarnished, it still exists, and I won't further destroy my own esteem. I am my own worst enemy in many ways, but I wouldn't be the man I am today if I didn't have so many personal struggles to confront.
Fujin and Raijin? They're back at the Garden, upon Cid's generosity and my persistence. Still the same old dysfunctional Disciplinary Committee, back in their rightful home with they're well-earned positions. Sure, I miss them. Father was right, I found friends that were loyal to a fault. So I figured, to at least partially atone for my sins, I could show them the same loyalty they've bestowed upon me for years and encourage them to make something of themselves.
And as for me? Well, it's funny, the feeling you get when you think about the past. Sure, it gives me some strange, empty, anxious feeling, but all physical aspects aside, it really gives me the resolve to press on and not give up on my dreams. I'll never be a friendly guy. I'll probably never open up to another human being. But that's okay. I can make it by myself. That's why there are forks in the road of fate. Maybe my path is set in stone, but there is always a different direction you can take, and maybe, just maybe, I'll end up making the right choice one day.
**EnD**
A/N: Well, here it is, my first attempt at an FF8 fic. I hope it's not too bad, this is just a product of intense boredom and this omni-present sugar high of mine! I know it probably isn't real accurate, I made some stuff up. I realize that I probably needs a lot of revision, but I wanted to get the idea down before it left me. Pleeeeease R & R, I have no esteem, I need the opinion of others to keep me going!
Disclaimer: I have no imagination. I had to steal these characters from Square and put them at my own devices. If I get sued, I assure you, you will get no more than a few laundered dollars and some lint. Oh yeah, and the title belongs to Nine Inch Nails, I don't have enough imagination to come up with one on my own (fancy that).
***
It's funny, the way you feel when you think of the past sometimes. Some people get this warm, fuzzy, content feeling as they regale old stories about their childhood or first love. Others remember, with a certain amount of grief, times in their lives where they had to face a terrible, aching loss. What's funny to me is, I've never felt that way. In fact, I guess you could say I don't really understand the way I feel when I recall the events that led up to me being here, alone and searching. It's like my insides twist into some intricate knot, tides of both regret and resentment swelling in the pit of my stomach.
When I was a kid, housed at Edea's orphanage on the Cape of Good Hope, I think I took my situation much more seriously than the others. None of them had even the slightest recollection of ever having a family. I guess you can't really miss something you never had the chance to feel. As if it wasn't bad enough that my entire family was killed before my innocent virgin eyes, I was the last to show up at the orphanage, after everyone had already made friends and playmates, after everyone had been familiarized with their surroundings and their beloved 'Matron'. I immediately felt ostracized, without giving anyone a chance to prove me wrong.
Even as a toddler I was something of a hard-headed ox. I can vaguely hear someone saying to my father, with peculiar interest, "That boy of yours sure does take after his old man. He's even got your impetuous personality to boot!". Being only 3 or 4 at the time, I didn't understand a word that was spoken, which was a terrible pain for me, considering my eagerness to learn proper speech. It was so difficult to vocalize my needs when I didn't know the words to express them. I suppose that's where my determination spawned from. That explains one facet of my often toxic personality. Mother was always so patient and helpful, she would commend me when I succeeded and gently admonish me when I was being a little too persistent.
Mother… yes, I remember Mother. She was always so supportive of me, always encouraging me, even at such a young age, to do what I wanted and to follow my dreams. I used to sit in her lap during storms and watch, my eyes growing wide with amazement, as the heavens released loud, thunderous cries upon our barren earth. I was fascinated; the force, the power… the control. I envisioned myself as one day growing to resemble a storm; feared, respected, wide-eyed boys like myself watching me with wonder and admiration. That was my dream. And yet again, Mother praised me. That was where pride first flickered in the flame of my soul.
Father was a bit different. He was a very intimidating man, tall and muscular, chiseled features and a stern upper lip. He would never assume cordial mannerisms, but he taught me much of what I know today. He told me once, when I was merely 7, "Son, you need to know that a true friends demonstrates loyalty to a fault. You got friends that will back you no matter what your situation, then you'll be alright in the world. But be careful; not many people out there are honest. Make sure you invest your trust in the right men and you'll find happiness in life."
I had a little sister too, 5 years my junior. I always found her so fussy and needy, so dependent on Mother's care. It wasn't until the day I first held her that I began to feel any semblance of compassion towards the squealing infant. In my young, unsteady arms, she laid so quietly, so peacefully, as though lulled to sleep by the very beat of my heart. At once I felt an overwhelming urge to protect my younger sibling from any harm, dismissing any previous thoughts of her agitating cries.
Although I didn't have the perfect family, I was a happy child. I didn't know the harrowing terrors of war, death, destruction… hate. Cruelty to me was when Mother wouldn't allow me to have a cookie before dinner. Pain to me was when I fell to the ground and bruised my shins. Despair to me was not having the same toys as the other children. I was young and gullible, but I was content with my sweet oblivion. Bliss in ignorance as they say.
One night I was staying with the neighbors who had a boy about my age. I was never a very sociable child, always teasing others and gloating, running around pulling girls' pigtails and splattering mud on their frilly little skirts. But for some reason, I became very friendly with the boy next door, although I didn't show it in a conventional way. I remember arguing with him over a train set when his mother rushed in, her face as pale as the December snow. "Now children," she had said, trying to remain calm in the face of obvious danger. "Put your toys away and come with me. We need to stay together for awhile, as long as your boys are with me everything will be alright."
Even at my tender age, I knew the poor woman was lying through her teeth. Distant gunshots rang in my ears and the hairs on the nape of my neck prickled.
"I wanna go home!" I had demanded, authority crawling into my voice.
"Now there child, I can't have you going outside, it's not safe. I promise as soon as the bad men leave, you can see your mommy and daddy."
"No!" I cried, rushing to the window, banging my tiny fists against the glass. I saw my father talking to some soldiers, and from his uneasy stance, I realized that the soldiers were not trying to make peace. They were yelling harsh words at him, waving their guns threateningly. My father was standing firm ground, refusing to be swayed by their ramblings. That's when they shot him. Three bullets simultaneously lodging themselves into various regions of his rib cage. It had lasted for mere seconds but the image played in my mind for what seemed like years.
Pausing from my recollections of the distant past I shudder, drawing my long coat over my even longer frame. How long have I been outside, huddled against this stubborn stone wall? How long has it been since I've eaten? I rub my hands together, my mind wandering towards a part of my life I remember far more clearly.
I was 7, almost 8, sitting alone on a small little bed. The ocean could be seen from the window, gentle aquamarine waves lapping softly against the shore, dragging themselves back into their crystalline depths and lurching forward once again to partake of the sand. The doorknob turned quietly, and I tore my eyes away from the restless seas to check on my visitor.
It was the girl with the blonde ponytail, the one who had regarded me with such a quiet kindness when I first arrived through the doors. Her name was Quistis. Quistis Trepe.
"Dinner's ready." she announced primly. "Are yoo gonna come an' eat with us?"
"Why should I?" I snapped.
"Cause Matron wants yoo down to eat with us." She repeated, sounding almost exasperated.
"Well I don' wanna eat with yoo! Yoo guys are stoopid and I don't like any of yoo!"
She stuck her tongue out at me. "Well we don' like yoo either, but yoo better get your butt downstairs or Matron'll get real mad!"
She slammed the door.
I guess the reason I picked on the other children so much was because I was afraid to get close to them. I was afraid that they would find weaknesses in me that I had yet to discover. My dream of becoming fierce and powerful had only become more vivid after my experience back home. I was more determined than ever to be the best fighter I could be. I needed an outlet for all of my inner pain and trauma, so I demeaned the image of my father in order to motivate myself. I had forced myself to believe that Father had given up on Mother and my baby sister, Sylph, and that because he wasn't strong enough to take on the soldiers, my entire family had to suffer. Deep down, I knew how unrealistic this train of thought was, but it was the only thing that kept me going.
Of course, that resentment didn't lie solely within my father. The other children didn't understand the pain I was in. They had never known the meaning of family, therefore they would not sympathize in losing one. I figured that even if I did open up to one of them, I would get no consolation, I would feel no better. I was a fool for betraying those who could one day have become wonderful friends and powerful allies, but I was young and stupid. I found comfort in breaking others' spirits in order to salvage my own.
I stood up, brushing dirt off my coat. After Squall and the others had defeated Ultemecia, I was banished from Garden and thus had trouble getting a job elsewhere. I was fatigued, hungry and emotionally unsatisfied. Even if I had the chance to do things over again, I don't think I could have been able to change much. I don't like the path I've chosen for myself, but the truth is, I chose it and now I must follow it to the end.
I'm sure if I beg and plead for forgiveness from my arch nemesis, I could possibly regain entrance to Balamb Garden. Possibly. But I have more dignity at stake than that. Although my reputation is tarnished, it still exists, and I won't further destroy my own esteem. I am my own worst enemy in many ways, but I wouldn't be the man I am today if I didn't have so many personal struggles to confront.
Fujin and Raijin? They're back at the Garden, upon Cid's generosity and my persistence. Still the same old dysfunctional Disciplinary Committee, back in their rightful home with they're well-earned positions. Sure, I miss them. Father was right, I found friends that were loyal to a fault. So I figured, to at least partially atone for my sins, I could show them the same loyalty they've bestowed upon me for years and encourage them to make something of themselves.
And as for me? Well, it's funny, the feeling you get when you think about the past. Sure, it gives me some strange, empty, anxious feeling, but all physical aspects aside, it really gives me the resolve to press on and not give up on my dreams. I'll never be a friendly guy. I'll probably never open up to another human being. But that's okay. I can make it by myself. That's why there are forks in the road of fate. Maybe my path is set in stone, but there is always a different direction you can take, and maybe, just maybe, I'll end up making the right choice one day.
**EnD**