'Some children died the other day;
We fed machines and then we prayed,
Puked up and down in modern fame
...You should have seen the ratings that day.'
'The Nobodies'
I cannot tell my story without going a very long way back.
I would like
to believe this is a story I'm telling. Part of me needs to believe it. I must
believe it. That way I have a better chance. You see, if its all just a story
I'm telling, then I have control over the the face in the mirror that is my own,
control over the endings. I can be sure that there will be an ending, where the
story ends and real life picks up where it left off.
But it isn't a story
I'm telling.
I tell it in my head as I go along. I wasn't much for writing
anyway. But I must be telling it to someone. You don't tell a story to yourself.
There's always someone else. Even...when there is no one. Even when you are
alone.
I'll pretend you can hear me.
But it's no good, because I know
you can't.
There's something cold and blank behind my smile today. Why shouldn't there be? All those years I'd worked in the barracks, in hopes of finally being assigned a regiment and a schedule, faithfully fulfilling Phil's every wish, and what do I get for it? Villianous and Heartless Supervision. Beating a bar against the cages of beasts.And the humans aren't any better; they can't be if they're here. My name is Alexiel, and I'm no damn psychologist. I honestly couldn't care less about what goes on inside the heads of those crazy bastards. As long as they're able to get out there and fight, what does it matter if they're a few waves short of a tide? This is the Coliseum, a step above prison, and a step below the army. It wasn't some nursing home; our fighters were here to, well, fight. No one questioned the motives of the fiends or the Heartless. Why are the rest any different?
Most of all, what do they see in me? Why do they think I'll be able to crack these nutshells? I don't belong here; with these furtive, white-coated nurses who walk on eggshells through the endless whitewashed corridors. Nervous girls who never laughed, and burned me with psychological babble I never wanted to know. I was never one for this. This analysis, this speculation. A mouse can't damn well sneeze without someone here analyzing it. I'll admit I was always better at a man's job. I belonged outside with the fighters as they made their runs. That was the Coliseum. I belong with steel in my hand. I don't belong here, watching and waiting, analyzing men that are no better than Heartless, no better than apes.
I hate this Wing, too, this entire building. It is white and there are no windows. And it is always silent, save when some soul starts their damn ranting and raving. The cells line the sideways. Solitary-that's in the back. Everything is spartan and clean. Nothing is there just to be there, everything has a purpose. There are no escapes, from the outside, or to yourself. No sharp edges. Nothing you can hang a rope from. No rope to begin with. Waste not, want not. If you're not being wasted, there's no way you can want. It's a beautiful October day. I wish I were outside.
I finally reach my office. There are letters on the door that spell out my name, Alexiel Vangard, block, uniform letters that don't catch the eye. That would be dangerous. I open the door and let myself in. There is a chair, a desk, a fan and a rug. That was it. I sighed.
Help me.
There came a slight knock on my door. "Come in," I surrendered.
It was McCoy, my new employer, as it were. "Hey Alexiel," he said by way of greeting. I nodded in reply.
"Ah-" he continued, scratching at his thinning mop of brown hair, eyes darting nervously. "We, ah...have a patient in cell 113...he, uh...we might...need your help..."
"That's fine, McCoy, thank you." I said sharply, rising to my feet. Hesitation isn't part of my nature. I gathered my things quickly; notepads, needles, things of that nature. No need for anything special. They're all the same. McCoy nods and shuffles out the door, walking the same way a lame animal might.
Now came my part in this little opera. A chance to show you what it's like to be nailed to this wrecking ball.
AN: Aw, nuts, I forgot the disclaimer! Well, anyways...I don't own anything here, or else I'd be disgustingly rich and have my own swimming pool full of those little sno-cap candies. Except for Alexiel. She's mine. 'The Nobodies' I share (along with a lot of wishful thinking ^_^) with Marilyn Manson. In the next chapter, Alexiel 'interviews' a patient with a startling resemblance to Cloud Strife. Revieeeeewwww! Love and Peace, Lady Aralondiel
