Disclaimer: Digimon and all things connected to it don't belong to me. Never has and never will.
Started: July 20, 2001
Finished: July 22, 2001
Revised: January 8, 2005
"Recollection"
You know, I've just come to realize that I never thought very much.
Sure, that must sound weird coming from me… I mean, I was the resident genius and everyone expected me to think about everything. But, when times got tough and things really mattered, I never thought about it. I simply reacted.
Primal instincts, I guess. Every living creature has them.
It wasn't a real problem in the beginning. My parents just believed that I was a fussy child, with my constant screaming and bad behavior. When my little brother was born, I calmed down somewhat; having a baby brother around certainly makes a little boy feel different. I played with him whenever I could, and I tried my very best not to hurt him. Sometimes there were accidents, like the incident in which my three-year-old brother fell off my elevated bed and nearly broke his left arm and neck.
I was crying so hard when we went to the hospital; I knew I had almost killed him and I had trouble dealing with the fact. Mama held me the entire time, trying to soothe my fraying nerves and stressed mind. It really didn't help, but I didn't want to push her away. And then Ken was released two days later, all smiles and simply happy to be going home. Things drifted back to normality for awhile.
And then school got involved.
All my life, it had never occurred to me or my parents that I was unusually bright for my age. They simply accepted the fact that I was reading books before I was three and able to speak fluently and comprehensively before I was four. When I entered school however, my teachers were amazed by my intelligence. They tested me on skills that should have been for third graders, and I passed them. They gave me harder stuff, and I passed those as well.
At age six, I was called a child prodigy.
At age seven, I became a certified genius.
With my new status and image, I became involved in school in ways that would stun other children. I became a straight-A student, helped teach math to the fifth graders as a second grader, and gained more publicity than the majority of the population ever would in their lives.
As suspected, all this fame and pressure began to affect my home life.
My parents were always bursting with pride over my accomplishments. They would smile and brag and talk to the media whenever asked about me. Ken, my sweet little brother, remained quiet and never seemed to want to talk about the outside world. All that mattered to him was the present and, as his older brother, I just couldn't disappoint him whenever we were together.
We grew a bit older together, and I finally turned ten.
I wasn't having fun anymore being the smart kid, with the endless amounts of responsibility and a routine that seemed more like a vicious circle. Still, the attention and status kept me going; I admit that I liked having my ego stroked. As things progressed, I just didn't have time for Ken anymore; my school, responsibilities, and prior commitments ranked higher.
That, I believe, was a major step in the direction to my demise.
Looking back at it all now, I guess I shouldn't be surprised that Ken was spiteful and jealous behind my back. I've seen this strange gleam manifest in his eyes from time to time, but it never lasted longer than a moment. I think my saving grace, in Ken's eyes, was that I spent time with him and still treated him kindly, like when we were younger. When I stopped spending time with him, Ken drifted away from me, both physically and mentally.
As time went on, I became affected by not being around Ken; my former aggression unearthed itself and made its way back into my life. I lost my temper at school and became extremely physical in my martial arts classes. Fearing I'd end up hurting someone severely, Papa took me out of the classes and set me off to play non-contact sports. I settled into tennis and swimming, which suited me just fine. At home, I was constantly doing something; my aggressive energy kept me from sitting down and doing something to unwind myself. One day, while working furiously on my computer, Ken knocked on my door. Seeing as I was busy, I called out that he should leave me alone. When the knocking became insistent and annoying, I angrily got up and opened the door.
It was then that I first smacked my brother, right across the face.
Sadly, I've come to regret this whole section of my life, beginning with that incident.
Aggression proved to be a dangerous drug for me. It twisted my actions into negative deeds, especially at home. Ken was normally my victim, crying when I shouted at him and running away whenever I laid a hand on him. Our past time together was forgotten with each additional episode, until we had a totally different relationship -- one built on dictatorship and fear.
Towards the end of my life, I allowed Ken into my room to hang out. It had been a terrific day for me, which led to a partial burial of my negative side. Ken was hesitant to spend time with me, but conceded upon seeing me smile; apparently, as the months went by, my smile had been replaced by some sort of disdainful scowl. It was during this short time that a strange device came out of my computer.
That device, that Digivice… I should have realized the importance of it the moment I saw it.
Then again, I wasn't thinking at the time.
I told Ken to forget about the strange object and stashed it in my drawer. In my life, I never expected Ken to appear in my room the next day, deposited on the ground by a shower of light from my computer monitor. Possessiveness overtook my system, and I smacked the Digivice out of my little brother's hands. I growled out words that would shatter fragile souls, the temperature of my room practically rising ten degrees with my increasing anger. Ken sobbed and left, leaving me to my fountain of rage.
There was a tension in the household after that; I think the episode with the Digivice was the last straw for Ken. He glared at me behind our parents' backs and openly ignored me in public. Quite a feat for an eight-year-old, I'll admit. I wanted to hate Ken for giving me those angry looks, but something barred me from doing so. The aggression was giving way to my old feelings, and I became depressed for awhile over my actions.
A week after I had taken the Digivice from Ken, both of us were walking down the street, back towards home. Papa and Mama had noticed how little time we seemed to spend together and urged us to go out and find something to do. The last remnants of anger shining through, I grudgingly took Ken's hand and led him out of the apartment and into the sun.
Remembering that day, I can't help but say that I actually had … fun being around Ken again. There seemed to be a nervous confusion in my brother's eyes in the beginning, but he slowly relaxed and genuinely enjoyed himself. For the first time since the event concerning the Digivice, we laughed and smiled together, and I rediscovered brotherly love. It was incredible -- like being reborn after a lifetime of heavy burden and painful sadness.
I'll never forget that day, no matter how horrible the outcome ended up being.
In the last moments of my life, when we crossed that busy street and that car swerved dangerously, I knew that someone was going to die. In that split-second that followed my sudden realization, I looked down at the little boy at my side and felt every single emotion I had ever felt for him.
Anger. Hatred. Jealousy.
Pride. Happiness. Love.
And overwhelming sadness.
In the very end, I recalled every regret in my life; every misplaced feeling, every unnecessary fight, every conscious deception. I stared at my brother, who was so naïve and so gentle and so incredible… I wanted to cry for every wrong I had done to him, every action I executed that led to pain and sorrow on his part. And I realized what I had to do: the same thing I had been doing for the last few years to Ken.
I pushed him away.
There was the jarring sound of horns and piercing screams soon after; I was so focused on pushing Ken away that I missed the sensation of pain. It was probably all for the better, because everything faded to white quickly and I knew that I was dead. For some reason, I just didn't care; I had found the most redeeming aspect of myself within that lethal event, and I felt like myself once more.
In the end, it was a mixture of thought and instinct that saved my little brother's life. He didn't have to have his life flash before his eyes, every guilty thought coming to mind and weighing down on his soul. Even now, among my thoughts of recollection, I am filled with the guilt I felt in those last moments. I would never get to see Ken grow up and have his own life. I would never get to comfort Mama, Papa, and Ken over the tragedy I had created.
I would never get to tell Ken that I loved him.
I would never get to say that I was sorry.
I would never get to say goodbye.
-- Fin --