Irony
Summary: Roxas is the only one who survived out of the Organization. Now, he is left as the only one of the Nobodies who can feel. Ironic, then, that he really doesn't want to.
Warning: Lots of bad language. I was just in that mood when I wrote it.
Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts. It's that simple.
0.o.O.o.0.o.O.o.0
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
Why did this always happen to him? Why couldn't he ever just be normal? Lead a normal life?
Sure, other kids stayed up at night, but they didn't find themselves penning long letters to somebody they didn't even know, yet knew intimately. Looking exhaustively for something even though they didn't know what they were looking for.
Other kids were on the computer or sneaking out of the house to have a good time, or, hell, on the other end of the spectrum, they could be cutting themselves in the dark of night when nobody could see them do it.
He was no fool. He knew he wasn't the worst off of everybody out there. Saw no point in comparing, really. He was who he was and they were who they were. Whether he was like them or completely different was not the issue. Maybe he was fooling himself by trying to imagine a 'normal' life.
Normal? No such thing. And yet there was seemingly this mysterious 'normal' that everybody compared themselves to, that nobody fit into. How could there be a category called 'normal'- average, usual, sum of a lot of wholes, when absolutely nobody fit into it?
Roxas stopped thinking. He hated thinking.
But it seemed he couldn't not think. No matter how many times he'd stopped thinking over the days, weeks, years, he always started again. And he always hated it.
Because if he didn't think, he could ignore it. He could ignore it and sometimes maybe even make it go away, or seem to.
This feeling, of not fitting in. Of not belonging. Like all the friends he had were not his real friends but just cheap replacements, which of course they weren't. His friends had stayed with him through thick and thin and stood up for him as he had for them.
Didn't matter. He belonged somewhere else. In some other circle. A group of people he had never met before, and worse, knew he never would. People who actually, for some reason or another, understood some part of his being.
Maybe not the whole- nobody could ever understand the whole you. But each could understand completely some part and that was just something that those he actually knew couldn't do.
We're all attached to our illusions. Don't want to understand because that much insight on another person than ourselves is just too much to process, too much to deal with.
Roxas understood that, but he couldn't help that those others were there, even though he didn't know who they were or why they were or whether they were. Why he didn't feel accepted, because they weren't there.
They didn't even exist.
It drove him crazy.
But even worse was the feeling of vague longing. It creates an almost physical ache that sometimes keeps him up at night, like now, wanting more than anything just to scream, shriek fucking bloody murder, til his voice cracked and his lungs collapsed and maybe that pain, being the more immediate, would drown out the dark yearning. But he can't because it would wake everybody up, and that hurt feeling becomes tightened with anger and perhaps a note of hysteria.
Roxas wants to be loved. It is something so cliche and so pathetic but so true he can't help but admit it to himself. He wants this feeling of belonging, being wanted, needed, cherished. He imagines that maybe it could happen.
But it couldn't, because of some reason that he doesn't know. It's like he's missed his chance even though it's never come yet. Passed up something he doesn't know about that could make him truly happy.
Lost something that he doesn't know.
There's so much missing and nothing he can find to explain it all. There's just these dumb fucking feeling and they make him hurt so much and it's like he's caged, though the bars are invisible and of his own making.
And why, why the hell did he have to actually feel enough for the other people tha eve though he had more than enough reason, motivation, willingness to plunge sheerly over the deep end, he couldn't. Because when you go pure stir fucking crazy you tend to mess up other people's worlds.
Roxas wished he didn't care. He really, truly did. But how the hell could he just stop caring? It was too late, he already did, goodbye, pull the god damn trigger. But he couldn't do that. It didn't even make sense.
Nothing made sense anymore.
He wants to be held. Wants to hold onto something, desperately, wants to cling to them like a leech and just stay that way for a long time- years, maybe. Why not? It's not like he hasnt' got all of eternity.
But he doesn't, he has tot remind himself over and over. You jump off a cliff, you die. Would you if everyone else did?
"No." Yes.
Because there is a faint possibility, in that jumbled confusion called the afterlife, the next life, Paradise, Hell, you name it a religion's got a name for it. All wrapped up into nice neat little bundles, everything's so concrete. This will happen and that is that and no, of course there's no possibility of that other theory being right.
Which would work just fine if the other theory didn't go and give it's own damn reasons and wing it right fucking back at the first theory.
Endless theological war.
And in the midst of it Roxas doesn't know which way to turn to view the tangled web, merely hoping that if there is a next time, if there is an after, oh please let it be easier than this.
Let there be those multitude of vague somethings, nothings, that he knows and yet doesn't know, misses yet cannot miss because never had, and how do you miss something that wasn't around in the first place? Let them be, let them exist, let me stop wanting them because I don't know what they are but I want them so fucking much it hurts.
Roxas is never quite complete. It's maybe why he continually has such a temper. Things he knows shouldn't bother him do. Comments about things half-done or half-baked or a few-cards-short-of-a-crayon-box tip him off. He is whole, god damnit, he will be whole, he's not missing anything!
Why would he... be missing... anything?
Roxas just can't stand a lot of things. He's touchier than he used to be, as worry piles upon worry and feeling upon feeling and it hurts and it's like an endless vortex of half-nothing, sucking him in.
Why can't he scream? He wasn't to scream. Wants his throat raw and sore and bloody and the emptiness to go away.
Why can't the void be filled?
It's had everything dumped into it. School, friends, work, band, sports, volunteer, play. Anything to fill the empty time.
But no matter how hard he tries, it never quite works, there's always the empty moment, and it's back to make it hard, make it painful, confusing, empty, half-remembered, shattered, swirling.
Maybe he'll go mad. Maybe he'll go mad and they'll put him in an institution where he can just go crazier staring at those white walls with nothing to do and the longing rising in him forever more and more, like a silent wail, a shriek of agony, there's something missing, something gone, something wrong.
Roxas wants to cry. Just to actually sob, like maybe they do in movies except good acting sobbing is probably better than the cries of actual feeling.
He's not and hasn't ever been an emo kid. Nobody knows that the inner Roxas, he one under the temper, the work ethic, the grades, is about to go absolutely ballistic. Loose cannon set on the town of innocent people.
Except it's been that way forever and never let itself ou no matter what, because once again Roxas cares. Has no idea why. Doesn't even want to. But he does, even though it makes no sense, logic tells him he shouldn't. More logic piled on top of that tells him he should, because they care for him and he should in return.
Roxas just really hates thinking. Why in hell does he do it so god-awful much? Is there really any way to stop?
If you jumped off a bridge, would there be water there? Or would it be just your luck that it's a dry bridge and maybe a nice sharp rock would finally make all the thinking stop.
Roxas's arm is numb. He's been leaning on it too long. He can feel the wail still in the back of the throat, the hysterical cry still waiting to surface. It never will.
Roxas's friends say the all-black he wears doesn't suit him. They say that khakis and reds would look better, would fit his personality more.
Roxas has seen himself in those, and just felt lost. He couldn't wear those colors. Colors were something apart. He didn't understand why. Colors were just wrong. They clashed. He didn't fit in to the haze when he wore colors.
He couldn't fit into the haze when he wore black, either, but he did it anyway because it wasn't so jarring, it made things easier. No matter what he does he can't figure it out.
He's lost, a traveler in a strange world, forgetting everything he knew before.
Left with only the misty pieces that tell him that he had something before. Something important, something worth missing. Whatever it is, he will never find it.
Roxas sits in the dark, in his black, wishing to God or Hell or just oblivion that he could stop feeling all these things. The ache, the loss, the not-belonging, the shattering confusion that leaves his mind in minuscule jagged pieces. He wishes he could just not feel.
Ironic really. They spent all that time trying to learn how to feel. Trying to regain the emotions they'd lost.
Not the only one who succeeded wishes to go back to what he does not remember, realize, he had, realize he hated.
Neither knows the pain of the other.
But never to find out what where or why, Roxas doesn't give in, doesn't cry, doesn't scream and rage and sorrow, though he wants to. He fools himself that he doesn't want to feel.
0.o.O.o.0 Fin 0.o.O.o.0
A/N: Confusing, scrambled, bad, and written in the middle of the night to my private angst that I miss my girlfriend.
Cheers.
Yes, I know the tense switches around. This might get rewritten in Creative Writing class, and when it does, that may or may not get fixed. I might keep it just because. XD