Di$claimer: Nope. I don't own Kuja or Final Fantasy 9. That belongs to the almighty Squaresoft. ;-;
Author's Note: Meh. 'Tis about Kuja. It really doesn't fit the game at all. It's more like... Kuja did something close to destroying the planet, but not...? Eh, whatever. I wrote it a while ago. shrug I don't really like it all that much, however, it is the only Kuja thing I've written that I -like-. So. Um. Enjoy or something.
Ah, the rain. He loved the rain; it was like tears crashing down from the very heaven's above, with a sound so peaceful, so deafening that it could either drive a man mad or send him into a blissful sleep. In fact, it (the rain) was about the only thing that he did love in this miserable, heart-wrenching world... A smile worked itself onto his odd, porcelain face. Miserable, heart wrenching? No, no. That was not the world.
That was him.
He, who lived everyday of his life in self-pity and sorrow and hate. (Nowadays, he did, anyway. That was certainly not what he did in the past.) Yes, he, who deserved not to live a peaceful, serene, happy life; but to suffer, apparently. Of course, what was more fitting than that for a monster like himself? He laughed. Well, wasn't he a monster? He deserved it. His laughter, it continued; echoing off of the pale walls.
They say that too much time in isolation can make one go mad. As can bottling up one's emotions for too long a time period. His laughter stopped suddenly, and he choked; tears filling those navy blue eyes.
"Mad, indeed." Kuja muttered to himself, the pride less tears held back. He leaned against the window frame, scanning the outside world (it was so alien to him now; he really did regret letting time pass him so), his silver, feather-like hair falling around his way-too-pale-face. (It was sickeningly pallid.) Then, as if out of the frigid air, came an epiphany of voices; his eyes shutting in agony. (Though it's only cause was himself.)
"How could you? Why would you do such a thing...? What could have possibly motivated you to... Kuja... why? Why
"I..." he trailed off, running a hand through his silk-like hair. "I thought... I thought it was the right thing to do..."
Perhaps not.
He cringed and sank to the floor, his back against the wall that seemed to almost mock him. (The mask was gone.) He drew his knees to his chest. (There is wonder; what happened to that poetic, graceful, prideful man? Simply a facade?)
An angel on one shoulder, a devil on the other; inner demons (maybe 'tis guilt) truly are terrible things to fight against.
Terrible, indeed.
He sobbed, his shallow pride now broken (he wishes it was there in the first place) and outside thunder boomed, and rain fell. He felt the lightening (perhaps now he truly was mad) as it danced across the dark clouds. His tears fell, he sobbed; and he compared himself to the storm.
Heaven's pain, Heaven's tears; his pain, his tears. Sobs echoed, just as the thunder did, and his eyes might as well have been the lightening (they were bright enough; or so it seemed).
Pain is an addiction.
Insanity was truly a very complex thing, he supposed. (Because he was aware of it?) As was guilt. His conscience would never forgive him; never let him forget. It was raining on that night, as well. No... it was storming. (Thundering like a heartbeat.)
Was murder really such a heinous crime? He had thought it was for a good cause, at the time. (Guess not.) However, Kuja obviously had not accounted for the price that must be paid. (Agony and pain; lovely.)
His (thunder-like) sobs had by now ceased, and he uncurled himself. His navy painted orbs stared emptily (so lifeless now) at the ceiling. The thunder's sound waves reached his ears and the lightning's flash danced momentarily on the wall across from him. (Like dancers of some mock-heaven...)
A soft, gentle sigh escaped the (suddenly, eerily) now quiet man. Though, his mind reeled. Inside, he fought his demons; he fought himself.
Though, one would wonder if he ever truly won that battle.
"Insanity is such a paradox," he thought, closing his eyes.
(End)