Not sure where this came from; I was watching a documentary during a university seminar and I just started putting down a few sentences that cropped up in my head – it kinda wrote itself from there, heh. Been a while since I last wrote a first person fic, and even longer since I wrote a Tales of Symphonia one; hopefully it will be worth the wait. My spellchecker tried to sabotage this at the last minute, but I think I corrected all of its 'helpful' alterations. Grr.
Be true to yourself, even if you can't to others.
The night air is warm as I walk down the roughly hewn rock steps to the beach. One step, two, maybe three and then a pause to catch my breath – resolutely blaming, not my own ill health, but the humid air for my slow pace. I'm getting better, they say. I say I'm making progress. Getting better implies that there is a point I've crossed, an intangible threshold, and that the journey will be easier from here on. But I'm the one sick, and I know it's not like that at all. I am climbing a mountain, plateau by plateau, with every summit reached bringing another into focus. Sometimes they are further, higher, with rough surfaces that will cut my hands and toughen them. Those are better than the ones that run, flat and barren, into the horizon. I'm not good with distances.
I head across the beach, my bare feet sure and steady now in the damp foam-flecked sand, and make my way towards the lone jetty. A stone grabs my attention, tiny and polished by the sea, glittering red like a ruby, and I impulsively stoop to pick it up as I pass by. Light-headedness rises in my head with the sudden movement, like white flowers blossoming in my eyes and filling my vision until there's no beach, no abbey and no island. Nothing, just me and the moonlight; pure and uncorrupted.
The moment passes, as it always does; fleeting, dancing just beyond the reach of my fingers, violent and tender.
As I said; making progress.
The flowers turn to stars, sparkling on the calm surface of the water that surrounds the jetty. I remember a night like this many years ago, sitting in the garden with Zelos, the same stars twinkling above us.
"Like islands," I had said. I have a habit of starting a conversation half way through. Some part of me enjoys the confused expression on the other person's face. I feel superior, in control.
Zelos had looked at me the way he always did. All raised eyebrows and careless smiles, and that smug self-assured attitude which I find so incredibly annoying.
"What are you rambling about, little sister?"
"The stars look like islands floating in the sea."
Since coming here, I had always hoped that this island would float, drifting carelessly, like my brother's smile, from place to place. But my island cannot move. It's anchored, remaining defiant, eroded by the sea in the same way it erodes me. I am my island; strong willed in my solitude, cut and battered by my own private set of elements – the books I read about places I cannot visit, the beautiful clothes I wear that nobody can see. My world has shrunk to this island, small and already discovered, its maps old and with nothing new to add. I know this; I've tried.
The stone is still in my hand, warm from my own heat. I let it slide between my fingers and into the water, making a private wish that one day soon I'll be able to leave my island. It hurts to make that wish, hurts to acknowledge my unhappiness, and tomorrow I will probably deny, even to myself, that I ever did.
The water ripples in reply.
I killed some stars tonight, if only for a little while.
Heh, so short. Hope it wasn't too melodramatic or anything. Go on, click that review button and leave a few words – you know you want to…and if you don't, I want you to. ;p See ya next time!