Watching her fall was the worst part.
They say when a person decides to jump, they black out before they hit the ground. Before their body meets the pavement. Before their face collides with the cobblestone. Before they become personally acquainted with gravel. Before every bone in their body shatters upon impact and all that you have staring back up at you from your ten story perch is the cold, lifeless fish stare of what used to be your comrade but it now a clammy, absent minded corpse.
That used to be my partner. That used to be my friend. That used to be a person.
Not a skin bag of wildly sprawling appendages and awkwardly placed limbs haphazardly strewn over the side walk due to the previous suicidal plummet resulting in a rag doll like death stance.
Her final resting place; a girl of such composure and assurance now laying belly up, tenderly exposed for all the nobles to see, the vultures to peck at, the maggots to nestle in. To be carted away on the corpse caravan that totted down the streets of Treno once a night to pick up the deceased and dearly departed of those who were to poor to afford a proper burial, or those Gaia deemed were best off forgotten. Wouldn't want the nobles to have to see the remains of a manic depressant, now would we? God Forbid they see what their tyranny led to, their negligence result in. No, don't let them witness the result of their absent mindedness, the fruit of their torpor infested labors. Hush, hush, carry her body off into the night, let her soul be swallowed by the moon and her voice die on the wind. Her name be an everlasting exhale on our lips. Her face a lingering phantom in our minds. She never existed. She never was. She never will be.
Who will weep for the dying cry of the scum of the earth? Who will mourn the loss of life among bottom dwellers and assassins? The killers of the night. Death's final blow. To be vanquished with the very thing they dish out on a regular basis, and roll in the riches in thus brings in and squander them accordingly. Who will find pity among those getting what they deserve?
And I distinctly remember being left alone. Because I am cold and because I am weak. Because I am slow and because her hand was too clammy to properly clasp onto. Because now I was deprived of the only family I had left. The only family that I had to call my own anymore was staring up at me, vacant and hallow, and empty as the bodies we leave behind in our wake. When she killed herself, she killed me too. The suicide shot never brings down only one. Never just the participant. There are always others. There are always families, relatives, children, spouses left behind. As a killer I should know that. I am just not used to being the victim.
She forced me to become a victim. I will never forgive her that. I may rot in hell for all damnation but assassins don't forgive because assassins don't forget. They can't forget lest they will be killed, eaten alive in the morbid, macabre job market that it is in the lively, disgusting city of Treno of which I have come to call home. Penniless, broken, reckless, and now ultimately independent I stood there shivering on that accursed rooftop I tried to forget the sound her body made when she hit the ground. That sickening thud. That final contact that was so quickly terminated yet would linger forever in my mind, causing me to wake in feverish sweat for so many nights thereafter. Amarant used to think me mad. Perhaps I am.
I am an assassin, after all.
But assassins don't become that out of choice, they become that out of necessity, out of lack of better options. Anyone who kills for the thrill and/or money can't be held accountable for mental stability, now can they? We kill. It's what we do. It's what we're paid to do. We kill and kill and kill and think none of it.
I just never thought she'd kill herself.
While Amarant is none the less homicidal he doesn't quite strike me as the suicidal type, (for he derives too much pleasure out of his beer) so there is no fear in losing my taciturn newfound, reluctant, reclusive partner if one could deem him worthy of such a title. I told you: assassins deal with lack of options. Amarant was after a result of many desperate lack of options. He knows this. I know this. We've reached a mutual agreement. It's a long story. He mistook me for a prostitute and after quickly correcting him in the only manner I saw efficient—physically—we've been stuck together ever since. But I digress.
Base line: I miss Dali and I miss Mercy and I miss Mama and Papa and the whole snotty mess of them and I want nothing more than to just go home, to close my eyes and count to ten and for this to all be over and for me to wake up in my own room in my own bed with my own things, but I know this is not possible.
You can't go back Lani, you can never go back.
I learned that that night.
o-o-o-o-o
AN: (Vixen sighs) Revamped. Reloaded. Renewed. Revitalized. My first ever fanfiction from approximately four year ago redone and reformed into all the chaotic mess you see sitting before you. Figured I changed a little as a writer. It needed to be redone or taken down. I opted with redone. Hence aforementioned. As a ridiculous fanatic of all things Final Fantasy IX, reviews and constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Lord knows I'd appreciate it and owe you bits of my soul, even if all you leave is a simple: LOL. (Ahem, not the effect I was going for, but still.) My adolescent mind in all of its freshmen wonder picked up on Lani's blatant lack of characterization and raw potential that was practically screaming for attention the first time I played the game, so how could I ignore the cries of my soul? I listened to the voices in my head and this is what they told me to write. (Read: The result of an all nighter, too much caffeine, and way too many pain killers. I start revamping old work. Scary.) Leave comments. Show me love. If I see this thing being received positively you shall indeed get updates much speedier (coughcough if ever coughcough) so by all means click that little button down there and R&R!