.
.
Truthteller
It hurts just as much as telling the lies.
.
.
Her first memory was of the white walls. All the white walls that stretched in a never-ending labyrinth—too stark, too bright, everywhere she turned. As white as the dress on her body, and as hollow as the scream inside her, somewhere inside.
Then there was black leather and pink hair, then bright yellow and red. The colors stabbed a sudden brilliance into her eyes. It burned.
And then there was noise in what she now understood as silence.
Murmurs, cackles, whispers, taunts.
Witch.
.
.
Naminé.
That's the name I was given.
I don't know whether it's a good or bad name. It's not like the others' in Organization XIII. I wonder if that means I'm different somehow, or if it just means I don't belong with them because I'm a memory witch. But regardless, this is the "new me."
There's a girl with beautiful red hair. She smiles like the world is a crown of flowers, and laughs as if the sea is always sparkling. I was born from this girl. Her name is Kairi.
Kairi is a Princess of Heart. She's very brave, and strong, and always cares about her friends. I don't have a heart, and I've never had "friends," so I'm not too sure what that truly means. But Sora loves her very, very much. She is his light.
Marluxia says that I'm not the same. I am a caged bird. I was born in darkness, and will fade back into the darkness someday. But if I change Sora's memories of Kairi, then I can become a Somebody too. Sora will come save me, and my existence will finally mean something! I'll be free to see the outside world... I'll finally have a friend.
I won't be alone anymore.
.
.
You're a lot of things. You're a Nobody. You're Kairi's shadow. And you just so happen to be a memory witch too.
You're also a white liar. You build your own white castle, you and your hands alone. You replace the links in the chain like they're meaningless facts, as easy to erase as lead on paper.
So you tell a boy brimming with light that you don't exist and aren't special, that you don't have a right to anyone or anything, much less a heart. You tell him the truth. You give him a choice, and he chooses the right one, and you begin fixing what you broke. You don't want to lie anymore, but you let yourself lie one more time, to yourself, that this is for the best.
From now on, you decide to tell only the truth. Because you know the truth, and the others only know the lies, and didn't you want to know once, even if it killed you? (Or is that a lie, again?) Didn't the lies hurt more than the truth?
So you tell a puppet that the puppet will disappear without even a trace of memory in her friends, and you tell a boy whose light is as bright and brief as the setting sun that he doesn't exist. You continue to draw pictures with color, but the colors mean nothing in white.
You're a truthteller, but it hurts just as much as telling the lies.
.
.
—and maybe you'll be forgiven someday.
.
.
This started as an introspective drabble, inspired by a creative writing prompt on tumblr. Then it evolved into a deeper character study, which also became a thought experiment with the first, second, and third persons.
I hope to write a genuine character portrait that will do Naminé's complexity justice someday, but for now, I was satisfied enough with this vignette to publish it.
Always remember to thank Naminé~