A/N: Hey everyone! I had an idea for a new story! This story will pretty much go into almost everyone's on Sunny Island's memories. This will be the start of my Memories series. Basically each character will get a whole story, with different lengths of chapters. First up is Vaughn! Enjoy!

Everybody has memories. Good or bad, they stay with us forever and always.

Memories

Vaughn

Chelsea laid her hand over Vaughn's. He felt her hand on his, and felt her warmth drift over to him.

Chelsea scooted closer, touching Vaughn, and then laid her head on his shoulder. Vaughn hesitated, and then leaned his head down, so that it was touching hers.

Silence grew around them for a couple of minutes, the only language that was spoken.

Then, Chelsea broke it.

"Vaughn?" murmured Chelsea, her eyes closed.

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you something?"

Vaughn grunted his approval, but Chelsea didn't immediately answer.

"I was wondering," she finally spoke, so softly that Vaughn wasn't sure that he heard her, even though they were so close, "about your past." The last part was even quieter than the first.

Chelsea immediately felt Vaughn tense up next to her.

"I'm sorry, that was really rude of me," Chelsea whispered. "That isn't my question to ask. Please, forget about it. I'm sorry."

Vaughn didn't say anything, and Chelsea was worried that she'd deeply offended him. She snapped open her eyes, moved her head, and looked at Vaughn. Her gaze caught his, and in that moment, she saw raw pain in his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Vaughn," apologized Chelsea sincerely.

"Don't be," muttered Vaughn, and Chelsea was afraid that he was truly mad. But then Vaughn moved his other hand so that it covered Chelsea's.

Vaughn took a breath, and then turned his head so that he looked straight. Then he began.

I was born weird, so stated my father. I didn't call him Dad—he didn't deserve it. In fact, I don't even think that he deserves the endearment Father, either.

I was born with silver hair and a purple shade of eyes. My dad—Father—always raved about it—in a bad way—because the colors came from out of nowhere. The colors weren't in my father's family, nor in my mothers. I faintly remember, when I was about a couple of weeks old—they say I can't remember when I was the young, but I do—that my father was accusing my mother of having an affair with someone, because 'my son—if he really is my son—looks nothing like me!'

My father accused, his words slurring together, and my mother kept denying the fact. That night, even though at such a young age, I witnessed my father beating my mom. When I was older, I matched the words to the actions. Even though the memory was faint, I never did forget.

As I grew up, I witnessed more events like that previous, even experiencing them myself. My father was a miner, and a wealthy one at that. We had money, and my father always reminded me that money was the most important thing in life. However, that didn't stop him from drinking immense amounts of alcohol. He often came home late at night, his words slurring together, his stance wavering. It was only later that I found out why he was like that, and learned to stay out of his way when he was like that.

I was five when I experienced real pain. My father bought a vase for my mom when he went out of town. I remember that vase: it was blue, with leaves of white and gold. From what I knew of the vase, it had cost my father a fortune, even with a discount.

Anyway, I had received from a nice old man up the hill from us a rubber ball that I liked to play with. My father was out—either mining or getting himself drunk—and I was playing inside as it was raining hard outside.

So I let go of the ball, and it bounced back up. I did that a couple more times, and then I decided to bounce it against the wall, instead of the floor. On the fifth time, I threw the ball harder than I used to, and it bounced toward the vase. Before I knew it, the vase wobbled from its stand, then shattering into many pieces on the floor. As the Harvest Goddess would have it, my father came in through the door then, soaking wet. Growing up with my father constantly getting drunk, the smell that came off of him—even with the rain clinging to him—was familiar. He had been drinking.

I could say now that I was scared. Here he was, my father standing in front of me. The rain was roaring in the background, and thunder and lightening struck constantly. It was dark, also, so to me, at that young age, my father looked frightening.

Everything after that seemed like a blur. I stood next to that ruined vase, too shocked to move. My father yelled something loudly, and added to the thunder and lightening and his drunkenness, it was scary. Next thing I knew, something hit my cheek. I staggered back, and the pain came again. Then it seemed to be everywhere—my arms, my legs, my head. I raised my head, and saw my mom in the doorway, looking. There was no expression in her eyes. Nothing. Then she turned and walked away.

My mother, the woman who gave birth to me, who had experienced my father's wrath before, turned a blind eye toward her husband beating her own child.

While Vaughn was talking, Chelsea's hand stayed on his, letting him know that she was there for him.

But inside, Chelsea was furious. What kind of father would beat his own kid? And what kind of mother would let him do it? No wonder Vaughn was so withdrawn, so shy, angry with people. He was hurt—badly. He might never recover, but I vow now that I will always be there for him, realized Chelsea.

Chelsea noticed that when Vaughn told of his father beating him, his hand left Chelsea's and came to his cheek, as if he still felt that stinging pain of the beating. Then, so sudden that Chelsea wasn't sure that it really happened, Vaughn's hand came down to rest on Chelsea's once more. Vaughn suddenly squeezed Chelsea's hand, and then continued.

There were three things that my father absolutely hated about me, his son. Although he hated almost everything about me, these three things were the most loathed.

First, he hated my hair color and eye color. At least once a week, for many years, he would constantly yell about it. I think somewhere inside him he believed with an unwavering feeling that I was not his son. Which, I came to realize, was fine by me.

Second, he hated that I did not like what he did for work. He constantly tried to teach me things about mining when he was in a good mood—which was very, very rare—and I would turn away, ignoring him and the things he was trying to teach me. He grew mad, wanting his only "heir"—if I was his son—to take over his business.

And third, he hated that I felt more comfortable with animals than humans. To him, animals were filthy beasts that deserved nothing. I disagreed, and he grew angry. I remember once I brought home a stray dog that had been cowering under a bush on a rainy night, and my father immediately looked at it, called it a name, spat on it, and then promptly kicked it out the house. I yelled at him, which only earned me a good beating.

My father and I—we only had one thing in common. And that was thinking that money was the most important thing in our lives.

Chelsea listened, stunned. It seemed that Vaughn's past got worse further and further along.

"I love your eyes and hair," Chelsea suddenly blurted out.

Vaughn looked at her, and Chelsea felt a blush creep up her face.

"T-they're pretty colors." That was true. Sure they were different, but it was such a pretty color, mused Chelsea inside. Chelsea had met people like that. People that made fun of someone just because they were just a little different. Vaughn didn't deserve that. From the moment Chelsea had met Vaughn, she immediately loved the color of his hair and eyes.

Vaughn's gaze rested on Chelsea's.

His violet eyes softened, and a smile played on his lips.

"Thank you, Chelsea."

There will be more, added as a new chapter. I spent a lot of time thinking about Vaughn. Why is he like the way he is? I hope I did him justice for the first part of his past.

Thank you for reading!

Please review!

*Shadowed-Wolfe*