Disclaimer: I do not own Trigun
This story is about Legato Bluesummers and what REALLY messed him up for life.
It's a funny thing. life. One moment you can be the happiest person in the world, the next, a hopeless bum wandering the streets in search of someone's old garbage to quench your hunger. I remember those days, back when I was a child. I remember my sister; my mother never got to name her before she died, so likewise, I got stuck with the child. My father had long abandoned us in spirit; he was nothing but a drunk anyway. Some nights he would come home sober and play the supportive father figure, it was just a game to him after all, my life, my sister's life, a petty game. Until one cold, well moderately cool night he came home, drunker than usual. Of course I stayed the hell out of his way, I was not suicidal, but he insisted on me staying by him at all times, just so he could see my face while he beat me for not making any money that day. Communist bastard that he was. Later that night while I was suppose to be sleeping, I sneaked into the baby's room to see if she needed food, I was sure I could find something just for her. To my surprise my so-called father was cradling her in his arms, staring into her eyes as though she was an angel. I started back to my room when I heard him call my name. He was still drunk, he must have been, because the next thing he did was attack me. It wasn't like the other times he had done this. Me, a ten-year-old boy, being abused by his father, that sort of thing happens all the time. doesn't it?
He left me alone, lying naked on the floor, bleeding. I hated him for that, and I still do, even today. Everyday for six months he came home piss drunk and ravaged me again, and again, and again, till he was too tired to continue. But I was glad, glad that he was not harming my sister, that is what really mattered. The children in town often wondered why each day I would show up with a new bruise or cut. More often than not I told them it was because I had fallen down the stairs, or tripped and fell. How I wished that was the truth.
Then the day came. The day that would change my life forever. The day I met him, Knives, Lord and Master, the one whom I will forever love and serve without question. It started out as everyday did, I scrounged around the Thompson's garbage can, they always had the best stuff, then made the rounds around the street, begging for money, and even luring some perverted old men into alleys for pleasure, all to ensure that I could get one meal that was not infested with maggots a week.
Around six that same day my father in a drunken rage threw my baby sister out a widow onto the cold, hard ground twenty feet below. I could have sworn I heard her scream even after she hit the ground, but everyone told me that I was the one screaming, but I knew it was her. I knew it. . . She died minuets later right outside the window because nobody cared enough to help her, I watched it all; her last moments as she gasp for air that would not come, the horrid cries just before death claimed her, her last and first word. . . Gato'
My nightmare had come true, I finally realized I was alone in this world, with my 'father'. Maniacal laughter diverted my attention, it was father, and he was stumbling around, barely able to keep himself upright. I will remember that laughter until the day I die. My cheeks were flushed red in pure, undying hatred. Hastily I grabbed the first thing I set eyes on, a shotgun that was cased, and hung on the wall. I broke the glass with my fist, ignoring the pain; I prepped the weapon and pulled the trigger. The first shot glanced off my father's shoulder blade and into the wall. He cried in agony from his mere flesh wound. Then I shot again this time the bullet went through his stomach and broke a lamp. He stopped moving so I walked toward his motionless body and kicked it twice. Still he did not move. A faint moan escaped his lips; I emptied the last of the bullets into his skull. Blood splattered everywhere, on my clothes, my face, and the entire room. I knew I had to get out before law enforcement came.
I placed the weapon in my mangled father's hands to make it look like suicide. Then I ran, I ran my ass off and never looked back. After three long days without food or water in the burning deserts I had almost given up all hope of living to see another day, so I stopped and laid down in a fetal position to die.
Not but an hour after I prepared myself to die my savior, my crimson angel appeared. He took care of me, he was kind, gentle. He understood everything, my past, present, and future. And in his arms I will forever stay.
This story is about Legato Bluesummers and what REALLY messed him up for life.
It's a funny thing. life. One moment you can be the happiest person in the world, the next, a hopeless bum wandering the streets in search of someone's old garbage to quench your hunger. I remember those days, back when I was a child. I remember my sister; my mother never got to name her before she died, so likewise, I got stuck with the child. My father had long abandoned us in spirit; he was nothing but a drunk anyway. Some nights he would come home sober and play the supportive father figure, it was just a game to him after all, my life, my sister's life, a petty game. Until one cold, well moderately cool night he came home, drunker than usual. Of course I stayed the hell out of his way, I was not suicidal, but he insisted on me staying by him at all times, just so he could see my face while he beat me for not making any money that day. Communist bastard that he was. Later that night while I was suppose to be sleeping, I sneaked into the baby's room to see if she needed food, I was sure I could find something just for her. To my surprise my so-called father was cradling her in his arms, staring into her eyes as though she was an angel. I started back to my room when I heard him call my name. He was still drunk, he must have been, because the next thing he did was attack me. It wasn't like the other times he had done this. Me, a ten-year-old boy, being abused by his father, that sort of thing happens all the time. doesn't it?
He left me alone, lying naked on the floor, bleeding. I hated him for that, and I still do, even today. Everyday for six months he came home piss drunk and ravaged me again, and again, and again, till he was too tired to continue. But I was glad, glad that he was not harming my sister, that is what really mattered. The children in town often wondered why each day I would show up with a new bruise or cut. More often than not I told them it was because I had fallen down the stairs, or tripped and fell. How I wished that was the truth.
Then the day came. The day that would change my life forever. The day I met him, Knives, Lord and Master, the one whom I will forever love and serve without question. It started out as everyday did, I scrounged around the Thompson's garbage can, they always had the best stuff, then made the rounds around the street, begging for money, and even luring some perverted old men into alleys for pleasure, all to ensure that I could get one meal that was not infested with maggots a week.
Around six that same day my father in a drunken rage threw my baby sister out a widow onto the cold, hard ground twenty feet below. I could have sworn I heard her scream even after she hit the ground, but everyone told me that I was the one screaming, but I knew it was her. I knew it. . . She died minuets later right outside the window because nobody cared enough to help her, I watched it all; her last moments as she gasp for air that would not come, the horrid cries just before death claimed her, her last and first word. . . Gato'
My nightmare had come true, I finally realized I was alone in this world, with my 'father'. Maniacal laughter diverted my attention, it was father, and he was stumbling around, barely able to keep himself upright. I will remember that laughter until the day I die. My cheeks were flushed red in pure, undying hatred. Hastily I grabbed the first thing I set eyes on, a shotgun that was cased, and hung on the wall. I broke the glass with my fist, ignoring the pain; I prepped the weapon and pulled the trigger. The first shot glanced off my father's shoulder blade and into the wall. He cried in agony from his mere flesh wound. Then I shot again this time the bullet went through his stomach and broke a lamp. He stopped moving so I walked toward his motionless body and kicked it twice. Still he did not move. A faint moan escaped his lips; I emptied the last of the bullets into his skull. Blood splattered everywhere, on my clothes, my face, and the entire room. I knew I had to get out before law enforcement came.
I placed the weapon in my mangled father's hands to make it look like suicide. Then I ran, I ran my ass off and never looked back. After three long days without food or water in the burning deserts I had almost given up all hope of living to see another day, so I stopped and laid down in a fetal position to die.
Not but an hour after I prepared myself to die my savior, my crimson angel appeared. He took care of me, he was kind, gentle. He understood everything, my past, present, and future. And in his arms I will forever stay.