Eyes Of A Clown
They say I have the eyes of a clown....
But, when I look in the mirror....I see only cold eyes....signs of someone living a hard life....though I'll never say so out loud.
Behind them...Those eyes of woe...Hides the key to my past...
I could never say I've lived an easy life, but I've always lived up to my expectations. First, with my 'foster' parents, whatever the definition of 'foster' was. My foster father was very strict in his ways of teaching. He told me not to ask questions. To never let the tongue slip. He told me I would be punished for talking once out of line. I didn't know what that punishment was, but I didn't want to know. It was best kept secret, so I wouldn't fear him so. I was also forced to call him 'Master' instead of 'father', or 'dad', which set us at a farther distance. Five, I was. Only five, and I was expected not to ask questions about life, or those living. Though I had so many, I dared not ask. I don't think I was ever so confused about the world.
So, I did the only thing I could think of: I learned to read, or at least attempted to. I couldn't very well ask him of the alphabet, so I just visited the library often. Asking the librarian what I needed to know, then saying nothing more. But, I couldn't erase the thought that I had somehow betrayed him, by asking questions. I deemed that as silly, but I still had the feeling.
I kept reading and learning. By the time I was six, I had already taken all of the classes the library offered to children. So, I began taking adult classes. When I was eight, I could read books that people twenty years ahead of me wouldn't think of picking up.
As I learned more, I began to wonder about my whereabouts. Not once had 'master' called me by my true name, but always by 'boy', or some other initial item. So, since I couldn't ask questions, I left the subjest alone.
But, curiousity always headed my way. Though holding my tongue and never telling about my need to know who I am, who I've been, my 'master's' wonderment got the best of him. I knew the stare I got when I returned from the library. It was either disbelief or he was proud of me.
Finally, suprising me, he spoke to me.
"Come, child." He said, in a quite unwelcoming tone, signaling to me.I looked up at him, my green eyes glinting innocently. I saw him, his snowy hair in a disarray around his face, and his ice blue eyes, staring down at me uncertainly. It was like minutes passing, but I knew only seconds seperated us. He managed, with a gentle smile, to lure me away from my precious book. As I advanced a step, I longed to be back in the safety of the world that the charming author whom wrote the book had created, fearing that I had done something wrong.
"Boy, do you ever wonder where it is you were born? Where you came from?"
Me, being very suprised at him directing kind words to me, muttered 'yes,sir' for fear that I was still in mortal peril. True, he had never once laid a hand on me, but a child's mind could grow to immense extremities of fear.
"Well, then, what do you want to know?"
"Everything." I replied meekly.
"I don't know that much, but I'll try. Your mother, I reckon, was a beautiful woman. She had to have been to've birthed a unique child as yourself."
I noticed his compliment, and blushed slightly. This was the first time I had heard a kind saying come out of his mouth.
"Anyway," He cleared his throat and continued. "All I have to offer are 'reckons'. I can't tell you the truth, because I don't know it. But, I'm trying." He smiled, the first genuine smile I'd ever seen from him.
"That's alright, sir." I said, my small voice echoeing in the room. But, that wasn't the truth. I wanted facts. Not 'reckons'.
"I'd like to offer anything I can, child----"
"Excuse me, sir. May I be excused to my room?"
"I...uh, sure, child." It was like his voice broke.
If I would have stayed longer, hadn't turned away, then I may've seen his tears.
That night, he died. I'm not sure of what. Maybe a broken heart? Was it because of me? At his funeral, staring into the endless veils of black. I, again, wouldn't ask questions,and as a friend of Master's held my small hand, I couldn't help to think that he knew of his death before I. After all, he was acting strangely that night. So mabye he did, or didn't. Those questions would always go unanswered, so better not to ask. Besides, hadn't I been taught better? I collapsed into the one holding my hand, and let the tears evenly flow.
The next night, I was relocated from Master's house to another one. A worse one. The lady said that he was a nice man. As did the man assure me I had a good home. So I decided the lady was right. But she was wrong, oh, so terribly wrong. The man forbid me to do anything. I was confined to my room, with only my few books to offer comfort to this strange, small and confined place. I was offered little food through a despenser every four hours. There was a bathroom in the small room. I never went out, the entire four weeks I was there. But, pretty soon the lady found out, and relocated me again.
I thought I could trust the next one. After all, he was the type of man who looked as though he could be trusted. But, looks aren't everything.
As they say 'bad goes to worse'.
This man was even more terrible than the one after Master. But, I saw a weakness that would help me get what I wanted.
In sixteen days, I convinced him to take me to the hospital to look up records on my mother, but the problem was that no one could find them. They finally resolved that I had been unrecorded.
So, after taking the news of my mother dying at birth without naming me. So all my anger and pain, the suffering, the loss, had been for nothing. I had no true name. The hospital didn't even record me. They asked me to choose a name, but I couldn't think of one. So, my new foster parent, with his calloused hand on my shoulder, named me. So, for the next few years, I was called 'Nanashi', which, in a brief description, means 'no name', or 'a being without a secure name'.
When we got home, he did nothing but jeer and taunt me. So, for the first time there, I began to cry. For that, I was slapped. Too hard.
Fortunatly, my black eye was still apparent when I visited the lady. So she, once again, sighing as she did, got me a new home.
This one was relatively good. It was a nice home, filled with that of a newly married couple. I was happy for those few moments. Living in the colonies, with people who seemed to love me.
But, then the war broke out.
All I could remember was fire. A deadly fire, and as the colony was threatened to go down, I remembered the lady. The hole that the new mobile suit had created. Freshly charred, exposing bear space, and the vicious battle going on. I remember the lady that I lived with screaming and begging for help, as she was suctioned closer and closer to the hole. I couldn't reach her. Couldn't reach. I yelled, too. Frustration searing through my tired body as tears leaked out. Then, there was another explosion as a mobile suit hit the side of the colony, nearly breaking through it. Fear spread through me like wildfire. And, for the first time, I wondered if I would survive.
It turns out I did. I never did find the man married to the lady. He probably died when the colony fell, but I was one of the lucky few to have survived. I felt a surge of violent anger within me, and I realized that I wanted revenge, wanted blood, wanted to kill.
Well, after that, I suppose the war stole me into it. I was consumed with the urge to avenge the death of that woman. So, I did. I murdered many, so many. The price--my soul. An eternal exchange. I became part of the battlefied. I was one with it, and no matter how hard I tried not to pull the trigger, or not to stab the man, I couldn't. I was taken. A token of war. A small price to pay for my lust and revenge.
That's how I met them. The Barton foundation--the cause of this bloody masssacre. At first, I pretended to work for them, each day, listening to the continued arguments of the 'Doctors' and a Barton relative as I worked on various mobile suits. Finally, a angered fight turned violent. I heard the sound of a gun, and walked over to the scene. I wasn't sure who had killed him, nor did I want to know, but he--the Barton man, had been murdered. My chance to intervene. To avenge for the colony's fall, to finish killing whatsoever.
I was very nervous, but didn't let it show. I had never been to Earth, but as I sat in the cockpit of the one called 'Heavyarms', I pondered upon what it would be like.
I soon found out.
After many hardships and turmoil, I found the ones, found them and defeated them, the organization called 'Oz'. I had learned of four more with the same mission, but had not paid much mind. I was sure that they all had their reasons for coming to Earth soley to destroy, but I wasn't interested. That left me focused more on my missions. As the Doctors said, I was called 'Trowa Barton', but I still hadn't gotton used to the name. Nanashi had always suited me better, but I had purpose for being here, so names weren't important.
My purpose was to kill, but what lies ahead after that?
As I stare into my own reflection, I ponder....
Could it have possibly been different?
I see the green in my eyes, than the hazel, and finally, the black of my pupil.
Then, I tear my gaze away and think of the future...
They say I have the eyes of a clown....
But, when I look in the mirror....I see only cold eyes....signs of someone living a hard life....though I'll never say so out loud.
Behind them...Those eyes of woe...Hides the key to my past...
I could never say I've lived an easy life, but I've always lived up to my expectations. First, with my 'foster' parents, whatever the definition of 'foster' was. My foster father was very strict in his ways of teaching. He told me not to ask questions. To never let the tongue slip. He told me I would be punished for talking once out of line. I didn't know what that punishment was, but I didn't want to know. It was best kept secret, so I wouldn't fear him so. I was also forced to call him 'Master' instead of 'father', or 'dad', which set us at a farther distance. Five, I was. Only five, and I was expected not to ask questions about life, or those living. Though I had so many, I dared not ask. I don't think I was ever so confused about the world.
So, I did the only thing I could think of: I learned to read, or at least attempted to. I couldn't very well ask him of the alphabet, so I just visited the library often. Asking the librarian what I needed to know, then saying nothing more. But, I couldn't erase the thought that I had somehow betrayed him, by asking questions. I deemed that as silly, but I still had the feeling.
I kept reading and learning. By the time I was six, I had already taken all of the classes the library offered to children. So, I began taking adult classes. When I was eight, I could read books that people twenty years ahead of me wouldn't think of picking up.
As I learned more, I began to wonder about my whereabouts. Not once had 'master' called me by my true name, but always by 'boy', or some other initial item. So, since I couldn't ask questions, I left the subjest alone.
But, curiousity always headed my way. Though holding my tongue and never telling about my need to know who I am, who I've been, my 'master's' wonderment got the best of him. I knew the stare I got when I returned from the library. It was either disbelief or he was proud of me.
Finally, suprising me, he spoke to me.
"Come, child." He said, in a quite unwelcoming tone, signaling to me.I looked up at him, my green eyes glinting innocently. I saw him, his snowy hair in a disarray around his face, and his ice blue eyes, staring down at me uncertainly. It was like minutes passing, but I knew only seconds seperated us. He managed, with a gentle smile, to lure me away from my precious book. As I advanced a step, I longed to be back in the safety of the world that the charming author whom wrote the book had created, fearing that I had done something wrong.
"Boy, do you ever wonder where it is you were born? Where you came from?"
Me, being very suprised at him directing kind words to me, muttered 'yes,sir' for fear that I was still in mortal peril. True, he had never once laid a hand on me, but a child's mind could grow to immense extremities of fear.
"Well, then, what do you want to know?"
"Everything." I replied meekly.
"I don't know that much, but I'll try. Your mother, I reckon, was a beautiful woman. She had to have been to've birthed a unique child as yourself."
I noticed his compliment, and blushed slightly. This was the first time I had heard a kind saying come out of his mouth.
"Anyway," He cleared his throat and continued. "All I have to offer are 'reckons'. I can't tell you the truth, because I don't know it. But, I'm trying." He smiled, the first genuine smile I'd ever seen from him.
"That's alright, sir." I said, my small voice echoeing in the room. But, that wasn't the truth. I wanted facts. Not 'reckons'.
"I'd like to offer anything I can, child----"
"Excuse me, sir. May I be excused to my room?"
"I...uh, sure, child." It was like his voice broke.
If I would have stayed longer, hadn't turned away, then I may've seen his tears.
That night, he died. I'm not sure of what. Maybe a broken heart? Was it because of me? At his funeral, staring into the endless veils of black. I, again, wouldn't ask questions,and as a friend of Master's held my small hand, I couldn't help to think that he knew of his death before I. After all, he was acting strangely that night. So mabye he did, or didn't. Those questions would always go unanswered, so better not to ask. Besides, hadn't I been taught better? I collapsed into the one holding my hand, and let the tears evenly flow.
The next night, I was relocated from Master's house to another one. A worse one. The lady said that he was a nice man. As did the man assure me I had a good home. So I decided the lady was right. But she was wrong, oh, so terribly wrong. The man forbid me to do anything. I was confined to my room, with only my few books to offer comfort to this strange, small and confined place. I was offered little food through a despenser every four hours. There was a bathroom in the small room. I never went out, the entire four weeks I was there. But, pretty soon the lady found out, and relocated me again.
I thought I could trust the next one. After all, he was the type of man who looked as though he could be trusted. But, looks aren't everything.
As they say 'bad goes to worse'.
This man was even more terrible than the one after Master. But, I saw a weakness that would help me get what I wanted.
In sixteen days, I convinced him to take me to the hospital to look up records on my mother, but the problem was that no one could find them. They finally resolved that I had been unrecorded.
So, after taking the news of my mother dying at birth without naming me. So all my anger and pain, the suffering, the loss, had been for nothing. I had no true name. The hospital didn't even record me. They asked me to choose a name, but I couldn't think of one. So, my new foster parent, with his calloused hand on my shoulder, named me. So, for the next few years, I was called 'Nanashi', which, in a brief description, means 'no name', or 'a being without a secure name'.
When we got home, he did nothing but jeer and taunt me. So, for the first time there, I began to cry. For that, I was slapped. Too hard.
Fortunatly, my black eye was still apparent when I visited the lady. So she, once again, sighing as she did, got me a new home.
This one was relatively good. It was a nice home, filled with that of a newly married couple. I was happy for those few moments. Living in the colonies, with people who seemed to love me.
But, then the war broke out.
All I could remember was fire. A deadly fire, and as the colony was threatened to go down, I remembered the lady. The hole that the new mobile suit had created. Freshly charred, exposing bear space, and the vicious battle going on. I remember the lady that I lived with screaming and begging for help, as she was suctioned closer and closer to the hole. I couldn't reach her. Couldn't reach. I yelled, too. Frustration searing through my tired body as tears leaked out. Then, there was another explosion as a mobile suit hit the side of the colony, nearly breaking through it. Fear spread through me like wildfire. And, for the first time, I wondered if I would survive.
It turns out I did. I never did find the man married to the lady. He probably died when the colony fell, but I was one of the lucky few to have survived. I felt a surge of violent anger within me, and I realized that I wanted revenge, wanted blood, wanted to kill.
Well, after that, I suppose the war stole me into it. I was consumed with the urge to avenge the death of that woman. So, I did. I murdered many, so many. The price--my soul. An eternal exchange. I became part of the battlefied. I was one with it, and no matter how hard I tried not to pull the trigger, or not to stab the man, I couldn't. I was taken. A token of war. A small price to pay for my lust and revenge.
That's how I met them. The Barton foundation--the cause of this bloody masssacre. At first, I pretended to work for them, each day, listening to the continued arguments of the 'Doctors' and a Barton relative as I worked on various mobile suits. Finally, a angered fight turned violent. I heard the sound of a gun, and walked over to the scene. I wasn't sure who had killed him, nor did I want to know, but he--the Barton man, had been murdered. My chance to intervene. To avenge for the colony's fall, to finish killing whatsoever.
I was very nervous, but didn't let it show. I had never been to Earth, but as I sat in the cockpit of the one called 'Heavyarms', I pondered upon what it would be like.
I soon found out.
After many hardships and turmoil, I found the ones, found them and defeated them, the organization called 'Oz'. I had learned of four more with the same mission, but had not paid much mind. I was sure that they all had their reasons for coming to Earth soley to destroy, but I wasn't interested. That left me focused more on my missions. As the Doctors said, I was called 'Trowa Barton', but I still hadn't gotton used to the name. Nanashi had always suited me better, but I had purpose for being here, so names weren't important.
My purpose was to kill, but what lies ahead after that?
As I stare into my own reflection, I ponder....
Could it have possibly been different?
I see the green in my eyes, than the hazel, and finally, the black of my pupil.
Then, I tear my gaze away and think of the future...