A/N: I wrote this because I had some random burst of creativitiy running through me. Mind you, I wrote this last year. I think I even uploaded it but probably deleted it because I had a bit of a hissy fit at this website. However, after a year of being abroad for my university studies and now being free for a while, I am back and thought I'd upload this as a bit of a "come back" prose. If anyone cares.
Basically a general prose about the Abbey in Beyblade, because that storyline always intrigued me.
The Forgotten Children
Don't claw against the death grips, which force you down and scrape your fragile body against the stone cold floor like a raggedy sack of newly picked potatoes, prepared for peeling and slicing. Control yourself, stop begging; and please, crush those protests that evolve from the deepest pit of your heart & soul because my child, nobody can hear you. Nobody's listening.
As you tire out, at long last, you are thrown in a room so forcefully, your already battered body hits the hard ground with a crack. You've probably broken a bone. Don't worry; just add it to the fresh collection of fractured ribs and bodily bruises. Continuing papa's stamp book was getting boring anyway, right? That's right. Just rest it out. Lose yourself to the dark…
Oh good! You're awake, at last.
Take no note of the fusing light bulb. Technical difficulties are common in your new bedroom, you'll learn to soon ration.
The cold winds radiated from the walls have slapped a blush on your porcelain cheeks, but you do not tremble. Impressive. I see you reach out to touch something that has intrigued you, only to snap your hand back. What's wrong?
Ah yes. The bars.
Steel bars; how convenient. Makes the place more homely, don't you think?
Your ears finally pick up on the breathing. You turn so abruptly, and I can't miss the battle you're having between feelings of relief and doubt. Nonetheless, you're not alone. That has to be a good thing right? You narrow your eyes, barely making out four silhouettes that lurk the corners of the pathetic excuse of a room. They're little boys, probably around your age, maybe a year or two older. Don't back away! They don't bite…unless they haven't been fed.
I have a task for you.
Do you think you could fulfil it for me? I know you can. You have no other choice.
I want you to look into their eyes.
Tell me, what do you see?
Crystalline blues, crimson cherries, fresh lilacs, pastel greys...all vibrant colours, wouldn't you agree? Unusual but very striking…
No, keep looking! Do not get distracted. You might as well get acquainted to those eyes now. You'll be looking at them everyday. Don't stop! Keep digging. You're clearly not trying hard enough.
Now child, tell me, what can you see?
Nothing? You're absolutely right! One golden star for you. Now, another question, just one more and then I'll leave you alone.
Can you tell me why there is nothing in those eyes? Why they gaze at you so hauntingly, so ethereally?
Of course not. You're just an innocent little lamb, whose only aim is to win the big race you're school is holding tomorrow. I'll give it time. Two years tops until you'll be able to piece together the jig-saw puzzle, paint the picture that explains why their eyes hold colour but nothing more and their faces are dragged down by ropes of emptiness.
Don't fret. You'll understand.
You'll understand the forgotten children.
Now, lay your head down and sleep.
You have a long day tomorrow.
