AN: so I've always wanted to write something for Crimson Shell, but nothing really popped into my mind. Then I was watching the great gatsby the other day, and this randomly decided to gnaw on my brain, so I typed the whole thing while watching the movie.
Disclaimer: I own nothing
He remembers laughter, a little girl screaming at a young man. The girl is so young, her cheeks flushed, and her hair ruffled. The man pats her head, and he sees her eyes light up like stars. Their yells are not at all cruel or mocking, but full of amusement and joy. He remembers a quiet man standing over the little girl, protective and alert. An old man with the deepest smile crinkles around his eyes, and a jolly laugh, standing in the background. He remembers a boy and a girl, boisterous and easily excited, so unlike him, yet still so precious to him.
He remembers sitting by them, quiet and sleepy, but smiling as he watches them, his family.
Now, there is no laughter, shouts, or even smiles. No running down the hall, no pranks, no petty fights that always end with him breaking it up. When they gather together, two spots are always painfully missing, the third having been used so briefly, before betrayal made people turn their heads, pretend it never existed. Sometimes even he forgets that place ever belonged to a boy with fake, sweet smiles and a broken soul.
He sits by her bed every day, waiting, hoping, that maybe, if she comes back, everything will go back to the way it was. That maybe, his friend won't scream at him anymore, won't ask him why he wasn't sad and grieving, instead so blank. Because he is sad, lonely, and wishing everything could be normal, that he could sit with his family with his favorite pillow, burying his face to hide the smile splitting his face, for at the moment, all it hid were his fresh tears.
Only his oldest friend knows, telling him goodnight in that gentle voice, so full of sorrow since the incident. Telling him, everything is going to be alright, that he shouldn't cry.
So during the day, he doesn't. He pretends everything is fine as he sits by the girl's bed, his face holding that sleepy, blank expression. She isn't quite gone...but she might as well be. He sees everyone else, pain filled eyes, while his are golden, empty pools. Unless there are screams or sobs, or his own whispers, the house is silent. So silent, hanging like a curse, echoes of what had been flickering like fuzzy memories. He wonders, how long will they go on, miserable and unable to move on, waiting.
The wail of an enemy forgotten, the stench of flowers and decay.
He sees it first. Horrible, rotting, monsters entwined in beautiful vines. Victims. Their claws reach for him, jagged and mangled. He shoots, it hits. But there are more. Waves pour in, as well as the ones controlling them. He sees a little girl with long pigtails and a malicious smile. A man with wild hair, stoic, but his eyes gleam with satisfaction.
Soon, gunshots and screams fill the air, the splattering of blood rings in his head. It's an even fight, both sides hurt and torn apart by death. This time, there is no good or bad, both are at fault and have nearly destroyed each other.
He chases the girl, his boots splashing in pools of blood, skirting around bodies. He hopes his friends are alright. More bodies thud to the ground, both human and monster. He looks away. Soon, the girl stops, turning towards him. She glares, angry tears streaming down her cheeks, a bitter and twisted grin stretching across her face.
And he wonders, if she had just been a normal little girl. A girl who liked chocolate and stuffed animals. A girl who was a bratty sister obsessed with cute clothing. A girl who dearly loved her family. Loved them so much she would kill for them, die for them. A girl so hurt by her brother and big sisters death, she just had to avenge them. And he realizes, are his friends not the same? They were a family, and family protects family.
The girl screams, runs at him, and he pulls the trigger. She falls, and he feels like crying. Fighting wasn't right...not when both sides were going to suffer such heartbreak when it was over. His knees buckles, his head meets the floor. His fingers lightly brush her cold hand, her sightless orbs locked with his. His eyes flutter shut. What a pointless, pointless fight.
Waking up is strange. Quiet, so quiet. Bodies slumped against walls, splayed on the floor. Eyes open, eyes closed. Fear, pain, shock, anger, acceptance. So many familiar faces, all frozen in death.
He passes by her door, cracked open, the glossy wood creaking and wailing as if crying for who was inside. On the floor, the stoic, messy haired man, face down in a pool of blood, a gun cradled loosely in his hand, his revenge complete. On the bed, the girl, ever so peaceful. If she was gone, then so was her thorn. An innocent pair of spectacles lay smashed on the floor.
The battlefield is full of bodies, for no one but him was left to pick up the pieces. He found his friends, dead victims with frightened eyes and mouths open in soundless screams. He is the only one left, all alone. Silent, empty, cold, dark. Alone, alone, alone...
One more bullet.
One more gunshot.
One more death.
One more blood splatter.
Silence.
A small, warm hand reaches toward him. Her pigtails bob as she skips, her eyes as bright as her cheeky grin. Pulling him along, past the clouds and moon and stars, she suddenly squeals. Letting go, she runs into the arms of a man, a man with wild, messy hair. A smiling young boy stands next to her, clinging to a tall lady's hand. They wave, and fade into nothingness.
He knows he hears laughter, a young girl's stuttering shrieks and a man's teasing voice.
He takes a step forward.
An annoyed, but amused sigh in the background.
Another step.
A bellowing laugh.
He walks faster.
The crashes of broken furniture, most likely a chair.
He starts to run.
A boy's flirty voice followed by a smack, and a girl's giggles.
He pushes past the curtains. It's so bright, loud, warm, not alone. Not alone. They're there, waiting, to welcome him home.