A Quiet Memory for You to Understand Me
I'm alone.
I despise being alone. I can't stand being in solitude. I need noise. Any noise.
Blood makes noise.
I like blood. I love the color, the smell, the sound. The quiet drip falls on many deaf ears. Not mine.
I hear its call. I understand its pain. I listen to the stories it tells. It speaks softly sometimes, and others, it screams out. I enjoy both. It reminds me I have noise.
And then you came and brought silence.
How I loathed you the day you finally beat me. You stood over me with a look of pure hatred on your face. Mind you I didn't care what you thought of me. But the look was so cold, so silent. It drove me mad before you even plunged that horrid piece of metal through my heart.
Little did you know I was dying before you even laid a hand on me.
So much was taken away from me that day. My sister, my parents,
My life.
But you didn't bother to think about it did you? No, you just stood there, watching me destroy everything you knew and loved into a dark oblivion for what they had done to me. I wanted them all to suffer as I had. And because of my vengeance, you wanted to take out your frustration on me. I suppose it was fair enough. I had gotten my revenge, and far more. When I crossed that line, I had gone too far.
But I couldn't stop.
The sound of the blood spilt was my comfort. My run away. Ironically, I loved it so much because it was the last thing I had heard in life. That's right. The things you saw running about destroying everything in their path...
They were bloodied corpses. No longer among the living; and yet we weren't dead, but in a perpetual state of dying. Never finally finding the relief of letting go, but always stuck with the burden of knowing the pain would not cease. For the years to follow, I wondered in silence:
Why had I given up?
Did anyone miss me?
Did anyone remember me to miss me?
You wouldn't know this, but my mother was a beautiful soul. She never showed contempt towards anyone as far as I knew, even when my parents got their divorce. They didn't hate each other; they just didn't love each other. Sure, it tore me apart to hear of their separation at the tender age of eleven, but I knew Father wasn't moving too far away. Mother and Father stayed good friends, and the whole family made a point to keep to our monthly trip to the park a tradition that wouldn't die.
She was just as lovely on the outside. I got my hair color from her, though hers was much richer. It had more of a violet sheen to it, and every night when I was little, I'd breathe in her scent. She would always hold me close to her as she read a book to me before I would slip into a dream filled slumber. A perfect opportunity to take her aroma in. it was something like the sweetest of lilacs, mixed with a little bit of cinnamon. Her eyes were mismatched, but just as beautiful; one a deep violet, the other a soft, dark baby blue.
As for my father, he was a very caring person. He never expected that my sister and I would be the best, for in his eye there was no such thing. And yet, every achievement my sister and I made was a miracle, no matter how big or small. Even our mistakes were praised with the utmost sincerity. I remember nearly drowning myself when I fell into the deep creek that ran by our home. He jumped in to save me, and all he said afterward was
"Now you know how to keep your balance better."
And this was true. Every time I made a mistake, he would praise it and I would get better at avoiding that slip-up.
I remember I used to think it was because his eyes were magic. He would always look me in the eye when he would tell me my mistakes were wonderful, because they were my own. He had the most intense, light blue eyes anyone in our neighborhood had seen. They would sparkle, even when there was no light. He passed those eyes on to me. I would spend about five minutes staring at them in mirror before I went to sleep, trying to figure out how they worked. All I saw was a thin seven-year-old staring fixedly back at me.
I remember asking him about it one day. I remember the kind laugh that followed, and him declaring that I had found him out. He told me he did have magic eyes, and so did I. He carried me to the creek, and sat me down in his lap. I clung to him, frightened that I would fall in again. He spent the next long while telling me that we both had this as a special secret. He told me that if I looked anyone straight in the eye, and said something, it would happen. But then he told me that he always saved that power for when he needed it most, and would never manipulate people for ill uses. I asked him what manipulate meant. To be sure, I stumbled over the new vocabulary a few times before he answered. That was another of his rules. If you said a new word, you would say it again and again until you got it right.
"It means to do something that will make someone or something do what you want them to. Being manipulative is bad."
I tested the new word in my mouth a few times. I loved the sound of it. But at the same time, from what my father had said, it was a forbidden word.
When I turned nine, my father and mother permitted my sister and I to invite a few of our friends over to celebrate.
Of course, 18 (or rather, Amari) had a list about twenty people long within the next two minutes.
But I was different. I was picked on constantly for my size, and my opinions. This was because I thought things through more deeply than other children my age. Most would assume that 3x3 was 9 and that was that. But not me. I persisted, and asked why. The teacher showed that the first three was the number you were multiplying, and the second three was the number of times you were adding them to each other. I don't even want to think about the glares given to me when I had asked. So, we had the party. Amari had her twenty-six friends, all giggling and playing, while I sat in a corner, reading a book and eating cake by myself.
As the years progressed, I became even quieter, and thinner. Most people asked me if I was anorexic, then left laughing as if it had been a very clever joke. Truth was, I wasn't anorexic. Far from it. My parents worried when I would ask for extra helpings at dinner, but stayed just as thin. It would get so bad, I'd made myself sick from eating so much on many occasions.
Eventually, mother, father and I all agreed we should have it checked out. I think my sister would have cared a bit more if it weren't for the fact her boyfriend of the week had asked her to a movie and a 'small stop at his place'.
I was fourteen when I went in to the doctor's office that day. They did a few awkward tests, including taking a 'small' sample of my blood. When the results came back, I swear I'd never seen Mother or Father look so crestfallen. When we got home, I couldn't stand it any longer and demanded to know what was going on.
"Sweety, I'm so sorry." My mother began, choking back a sob.
"Your body can't hold in all the weight it's supposed to. Your metabolism just can't.. handle..." and she broke down in my father's arms. He continued her story with a solemn, but gentle expression.
"It's a disease called Macerletum... there isn't a cure, and it can be fatal. I'm sorry."
That's all I heard before I ran to my room, and cried myself to sleep.
Up until I was about sixteen, I had been a good kid. Mostly. I did have a bit of a temper here and there, but I was a quiet, shy, I'm-invisible type of person. Hard to believe isn't it?
Anyway, when I was sixteen and a half, I was walking home from the store. Mom had asked me to pick up a few groceries, and I didn't see any point in arguing. It was a nice day, and I hadn't been outside for a week and a half. I only had to carry a small bag, so I could run across streets when I needed to. I was turning the corner at one of the busier intersections, and the smile that had finally found its way onto my face dropped. I saw someone speeding along, going off road and narrowly missing people staring in horror on the sidewalk. I thought my heart would stop when I saw the bright, brand new red convertible this maniac was driving in hit the side of another car. They both crunched, and the bag slipped from my fingers when I saw my father's bloody, limp body hanging out of the driver's window. All I could do was stare in a kind of daze, not being able to take it all in. when reality hit me like a bag of lead weights, I ran down to the accident with legs that felt like they would collapse beneath me.
It was like being in a bad film about a war. There was blood everywhere, almost too much to be natural. The driver that had hit my father lay over the steering wheel, unconscious, but still alive. I wish my father had been that lucky.
I shakily walked over to his car. The world around me melted away. All the noise, the commotion, the sound of oncoming sirens. It didn't exist anymore. All I could do was watch as the people in the ambulance to my left come out, and put my father on to a stretcher. He still had a chance. I knew because he turned his head, and smiled at me as though he couldn't even feel the pain that was so obviously there.
I went up to the man who had carried him into the back of the van, and asked if I could go with him. He asked if I had any relation to Father, and when all was explained, I was carried away to the hospital with him, hoping that everything would turn out ok.
It didn't.
I remember sitting in the waiting room, crying in my mother's arms. I could tell she wanted to cry as well, but she didn't. And where was my dear sister? Off bouncing like crazed weasels with her new boyfriend. But mother didn't know that. The only reason I did was because I knew my sister too well. She had this odd mask around my parents that made her seem as sweet and innocent as a lamb. But when she and I were alone, the mask melted, revealing a cruel, and... using my father's words... manipulative girl.
One of the nurses came out and said we could see him then. My mother and I all but rushed into the room, only to find the same, sweet man that would soon no longer be with us.
He spoke with mother a while, about what I couldn't tell you. I was concentrating too much on not crying, because I didn't want him to feel guilty for leaving. After he had finished talking with Mother, he called me to his bedside. I tried to walk steadily, but I felt like it was almost impossible. When I was inches away from him, all I could do was sit in the chair beside the bed, and look at what had happened. The once golden, sandy blonde hair was now caked with blood, fresh and dry. He was covered with three or four blankets, yet he still shivered slightly. It was frightening, thinking that the mangled man lying in front of me was my father. I couldn't hold it back anymore. I cried. Softly, but surely. I had always cried quietly. And not because I tried. My voice was naturally quiet, and so it never came out very strong. He reached up a shaky hand, and ran it through my hair, which my parents had let me grow out.
"Hey there, kiddo. How are you?"
"A little sick." I said through my tears, knowing where this was leading. It was my comfort conversation with him. Only we knew the words.
"What ails you?" he asked, all as if by script, which would have been just as well. Any time I felt bad about something, he would use the same words.
"My heart." I answered with a slightly cracked voice. Again, this was my line, and I intended to see this scene through.
"Well, do you remember how to mend a broken heart?"
"No," I responded with a sad smile. I knew the advice to come, but again, I was sticking to my lines.
"Please tell me how."
"Just remember: if you feel your heart is cracking, just paste it back together with more love."
"How do I do that?"
"Smile."
This was our piece. It always helped me, every line, so practiced. It was old, and kind of cheesy but I didn't care.
"My beautiful boy. Take care of your mother and sister for me."
I swallowed hard. I didn't want him to leave, especially not this quickly.
"I have a present for you." He said strongly, although I knew it took a lot of effort to do so.
"Akira, do you really think he's going to like..." my mother began, but he cut her off.
"Don't be silly, of course he is," He smiled at me, and the ache in my heart worsened.
"A present?" I asked. This was so odd. As far as I knew, I had never seen my father this determined to give me something.
"Yes a present, Shuichi." He coughed slightly. I didn't want him to hurt himself trying to talk. I wanted him to just lie still. Then he would be better.
A childish thing to think, but what do you expect? You've lost a father. You know how it feels.
"When you get back home, go into the closet in the hall way." He was speaking in a half whisper now.
"But I go in there dozens of times. There's nothing in there." I protested quietly. Unless he had planned getting himself in a car crash to give me this thing, it was unthinkable for a gift to be there.
"Oh, but there is. You just have to know where to look. Just remember that no matter what; never try to look too hard. Sometimes the most obvious things are only obvious when you don't look."
At that point, what he was saying didn't make any sense. Now that I have already done his last request, the message was all to clear.
I remember him giving me a smile before he took one final pained gasp of air, and fell limp in the hospital bed.
My head was spinning. He couldn't be dead. I didn't want him to be dead. All the memories of the time we spent together came rushing back to me. And now it would all stop. He wouldn't be there to help my mistakes by looking me in the eyes. He wouldn't be there to see me finish school. He wouldn't be there.
For the next two years, I can honestly say I was a selfish brat (putting it mildly, anyway). My sister was her usual bitchy self, and didn't give a crap that our father had died. When the news reached her, she fake cried in front of mother, and laughed about it afterward. Oh how I hated her then. How could she be so happy about losing Father? Later, I realized something that had been plain from the beginning: she just didn't care; therefore she was happy.
I tried this for the next year, and found it helped.
Until because of it, my mother died of a broken heart on my seventeenth birthday.
I refused to be the sweet child I had been before. Now that both my parents were gone, and my sister might as well have been from a different family, I was alone.
As for what was in the closet, it wasn't much; just a silver pendent in the shape of a dragon, wrapped in an orange bandana. You've never seen that one. I couldn't bear losing it in battle, so I never wore it. That's where it was, in plain sight, and I almost kicked myself for not knowing about it before. I guess Gero liked it, so he made four copies of it when he created the outfit I was to wear.
But that comes later.
The only thing that kept me sane through all of this was the hope of somehow returning my parents to life, and starting over. At that time, I had no clue what the Dragon Balls were, or that they even existed. All I knew was that whenever something or somebody died, I would find it to be alive and well in a short time. This puzzled me, but I kept to myself as usual.
I can remember learning many things from being in constant fights with other boys from my school, and some of the neighboring ones. One of them was that I couldn't trust anybody; that my entire memories of happiness with a family were nothing more than a temporary escape. I wouldn't have been alive for much longer if it weren't for one boy that I met in the middle of that school year. His name was Yuki Sachi. At first, I wanted nothing to do with him. He was new, an outsider, therefore he could be trusted less than the people I knew. I remember standing behind the school building one weekend, a gun to my head. I was ready to pull the trigger when I felt a firm, but gentle grip on my wrist. I turned my head to find him trying not to cry. You just can't resist a face that can look that pathetic. What with the golden hair and sea green eyes that could pull the perfect puppy pout. For that one moment, I felt like I wasn't alone anymore. Within the week, we were lovers, and the best of friends.
But it didn't last.
Half a year after we had become settled with each other (and I got used to the fact that he was half Ice demon) Yuki had to leave for the United States to visit his relatives. I was to be alone again for the next two weeks.
And on the eleventh day, it happened.
I was walking from school with my sister, and all of a sudden, she stopped. I caught up beside her and asked what she was staring at. Her only response was to grab me by the wrist, and pull me off in a direction that wasn't homeward.
She took me this way and that, me asking what was going on the entire way. She simply trudged on, or reassured me that I would see soon enough. Soon we were headed toward the closed off area of the forest that bordered our town on the east. I pulled out of her grasp and demanded to know what was happening.
"You said you hated your life, didn't you?" she asked in a monotone I knew all to well.
"Of course I do." Was my cold reply. She smiled the way she did when she was piecing together a brilliant plot, and continued,
"Well, I found someone who can change it for us."
She walked on, a focus in her eye that I had never seen before. I asked more questions, but she only told me where she had found this person, and the deal she had made with him.
He had told her that he had a way to make us less vulnerable by a long shot; that we could be stronger, and not have to have a care in the world about anything or anyone for the rest of our lives. My first thought was about Yuki. I decided I would just go back to him if I didn't like the offer.
Little did I know, the man Amari had found wasn't going to let go of us that easily.
I think you can guess what happened next. The moment we walked into the strange lab in the side of a mountain, I was strapped down to a table, a maniacal look on my sister's and Gero's face. I couldn't believe it. I asked my sister in a pleading and hurt voice what and why was this happening?
"I wanted to be stronger. Gero here told me about his plans for a cyborg pair that could easily destroy the world with a fingertip. You know how bad this place has been. We both want revenge. Unfortunately for you, I can't risk going through the operation and have something bad happen. So you get to play lab rat."
I tried to hold back tears that were fighting their way from my eyes. Betrayed by my own and only flesh and blood. She really didn't care about anyone but herself. I screamed curses at her; I wished her a long painful stay in Hell. I began to insult the way she toyed with her weekly boyfriends. At that moment I hated everything about her. I couldn't hold back the tears anymore. They fell and left wet drops on the floor that evaporated almost as quickly as they had appeared.
"Oh don't make such a big deal about it. Even if things don't turn out alright, you were going to die within about a year anyway."
As much as I loathed hearing the words spilling out of her mouth, she was right for once. On the night my father told me of my disease, he had said in my condition, the doctor had given me until I was about nineteen or twenty for it to kill me. I relaxed slightly. I didn't see a point in struggling.
I was letting go.
The operation was painful to say the least. As a matter of fact, painful doesn't even begin to describe it. I wasn't given any painkillers. No anesthesia, no nothing. All I was given was the hope of dying quickly. But it never killed me. I faced every second of that scalpel cutting into my flesh. The blood spilling out as the madman went, slicing and replacing all of my 'obsolete parts'. The moment they were pulled, they were tossed aside like trash, there to decay for all he cared. My sister just stood in a corner, watching him work on me. How could she? That monster! A traitor to my life for the sake of hers. She didn't care about the power. She had also explained that if the procedure went well, it gave you perpetual youth. She wanted to save her face, and was using me as a test subject.
That's what I had thought anyway. Now that I think about it, she was just angry like I had been. She couldn't find another way out of her problems because she's always felt this need for everything to go in the direction of her first means of escape. She was afraid.
It went on. I was screaming so loudly out of pain, I hoped I would run out of air and die. No such luck. Gero went on, tearing out muscles, bones, replacing them with machine parts. The only things keeping me alive were those implants. That's why I didn't die on the table. Oh but I wished I would. Every nerve left in my body screamed along with me, all moaning out of severe agony and torture that seemed as though it would never stop. For the most part, I had kept my eyes closed, too afraid and in pain to look. But when the slicing had ended for a short while so Gero could get another tool, I slowly opened my eyes.
And screamed again.
This time, the cry was out of fear. My flesh from the collarbone to my stomach was open, pushed back so I could see what was being done to me. There lay my stomach muscles, mixed with blood, oil, and machine parts that were new and strange to me. I could see so much and yet so little of what should have been there, and what was there. I felt sick as I tried to get free from the straps that held me down. All that did was put me in more pain, and allow me to see nearly all of my insides spilled out and around the floor. Everything was covered in blood. I would have thrown up if I had anything in my stomach. I realized with horror that it was working off of mechanics now, and not what my mind told it to do.
I could see my heart, beating irregularly in my open chest. I was so afraid. I couldn't move. When Gero came back with a smaller knife and what looked to be a mini generator, he gave me a wicked smile.
"Just one more adjustment, and you'll be 2/3 of the way done."
And I stared in terror as he raised the scalpel over my heart, and brought it down. I let out such a loud scream I didn't recognize my voice, and finally fainted from exhaustion and absolute fear.
When I woke up, I would never be the same.
Isn't it funny how lab rats never get any sort of painkillers or something to ease the terror of an experiment? Ever notice that after the experiment is a success, it doesn't bring misery on the ones who take the result? That's kind of what happened with me. I was the lab rat. I had to go through the test. And now that it was definite it worked, Gero was to erase my memories of my life before hand. The ceiling was of shiny chrome colored metal, and I could see my reflection. At least, I had thought it was my reflection at the time. I wasn't sure what to think actually. The too skinny to be healthy, practically bipolar, light skinned boy was no longer there. In his place, there was a terrified, well built teen. All the stray hairs that I never bothered with anymore because of the lack in point were now carefully put in place. The pale skin was now a few shades darker. The body was now lean and muscular, instead of nearly dead scrawny. The clothes that would have been sliding off of me from size before, were now well fit, but still loose enough to move around and be flexible in. they were different clothes too. In place of my school uniform, there was a white, long sleeved undershirt, a black t-shirt with an odd red logo on the left side; a pair of jeans with a slight tear above the left knee, lime green socks overlapping the legs of the jeans, and a pair of blue high tops. But what really kept me staring at this new person who must have been me, was the bright, orange bandana tied limply around my neck. And my eyes. They were no longer the mischievously sly, but friendly light blue. They kept that power that I've always had, but now they were icy, almost too cold to be real. They were...
Poignant. Sinister. Hostile.
But what scared me most was, they were mine now.
I tried one last attempt to break free of my bonds holding me to the working table, which was now clean of blood. Gero simply smiled and said,
"You won't get free, boy. Those are reinforced steel chains. Until you've been programmed, you won't be getting out. You might as well lie still."
I felt like crying all over again. This was horrible. How anyone could be so heartless was beyond me. But just the same, I did as I was told, and soon, all my memories had been wiped from my mind, and one put in:
Goku is the enemy.
Kill everything he holds dear.
Kill HIM.
I don't know what happened in the time between, but after my sister had been operated on (WITH painkillers, and not as brutally worked on) her and I were set away in large capsules that easily took up one eighth of the wall they were leaning on. We had been shut off, left to sleep in a deep hibernation until the endless supply of energy we were about to inherit charged within us. When we were set free, I had one thought in my mind:
Kill.
It felt natural to be emotionless, only finding the slightest bit of joy in destroying. I felt calm, yet insane for the sight, smell, and sound of blood. My sister had the same look in her eye as I did. A thirst that could only be quenched by slaughtering everything in our path.
You weren't there to see what we did in this timeline, although you know what happened from your trip. Yes I knew about that. We hated Gero. He thought he could control us?
"No way." I could tell we both thought that. So, I blasted off his hand holding the remote that could turn us back off. It was amazing how easily the concept of an energy blast came to the both of us. And it WAS an energy blast, not a ki blast. We had no ki left, but you knew that from not being able to sense us coming.
Anyway, he was mouthing off, talking shit about how we should 'be grateful we weren't shut off for good.' I had enough of his fat mouth, so I kicked off his head. It didn't work. He was still telling us we would pay, and we weren't so mighty. That something called "cell" was going to somehow absorb us and become the ultimate fighter. 18 walked over to the tank that held a tiny thing that looked like a cross between a bug and an infant that wasn't completely developed.
"I don't know, it's kind of cute. And to think it's going to grow up to eat us." I smirked and walked back to Gero's head, who was still shouting curses and warnings of us being sorry. The smile stayed to my face as I shoved my foot down on the head that crunched like an egg, and with about as much effort as it would take to do so. The circuits that made up the synthetic body sparked and flew this way and that as my sister and I flew off without another thought.
For the next few years, my sister and I began building our reputation as mass killers, and became known as "The Androids". You may not know this, but the first time I saw you was when I killed your father. You were still an infant, if not, you weren't any older than two. Your mother held you as if she were trying to make you part of her flesh. At the time, I wouldn't have had any thought about it other than you were simply another human to toy with and then destroy. But something in your baby blue eyes captured me that day. I'm not sure if it was the pure innocence, or ignorance of what was happening at the time, but I became intrigued to a point where I decided to let you live. I wanted to watch you grow; wanted to see if that natural curiosity stayed to your face. I saw you play as a toddler in your backyard. Funny that your mother never noticed me sitting in a branch of the tree that sat near the swing-set you had. Then I saw you grow to be a preteen. You had this amazing fling in your hair that didn't seem like it wanted to lay flat. As you got older it lessened to a small piece in the back.
Soon you were a rebellious teenager, trying to fight against us alongside your teacher and friend, Gohan. I found it amusing that you could barely lift the sword you tried to kill us with, but you managed. NOT. We kicked your ass every time. That day at the theme park, we left you in a bloody heap. Then Gohan picked you up and hid you before we could deliver the final blow. I offered to my sister that we take a pop-shot. That maybe we'd "get lucky."
We did.
Though it wasn't the killing shot I had hoped for, it certainly took a toll on your teacher to have his whole left arm blown off of his body. You were fourteen or so at the time, and thickheaded enough to think you could take an easy revenge. I'm not sure, but if I had to guess, Gohan told you "no" and trained you as best he could...
Before we killed him.
For some unknown reason, he had come alone that time we last saw him. He put up as best a fight he could; I'll give him that. But it certainly wasn't good enough. We killed him with very little effort, just in time for you to see. We left, satisfied. Well, my sister did. I hung back slightly to continue my stalking. The clouds that had been overhead for the past few hours finally let go of the storm it promised. You slowly walked towards your dead master, tears streaming down your face. I dismissed it as unimportant for I was growing bored and took off.
However, I could hear a primordial scream from behind me as I was flying, and feel an amazing rise in power. It caught my attention but it wasn't large enough to beat us.
The years passed and you got older, stronger...
And if I may say so, lovelier. Unlike many people I had encountered, you were absolutely enticing when you got angry. It was all I could do to not just kill you then and there so I wouldn't have to face the emotions I felt every time I saw you. But my stubbornness kept you alive. I convinced myself the only way to beat my emotions was to show I could handle them as well as, no BETTER than any human. It would be an unknown victory, but a victory nonetheless.
Soon you were about sixteen or seventeen years old. You helped with the last of the pathetic race that inhabited that miserable little mud ball you called Earth. After having beaten you into a bloody mess on the ground, I didn't see you for about three days. My sister and I had our fun while you were gone. With no one around to stop us, we went uninterrupted.
When you came back, you were a lot more nervous than usual. But I didn't care. All I knew was that you were going to make even more mistakes. And so you did.
After a long while, you were gone again. This time for a much lengthier period; nearly a week. I was sure you had given up, that you were just going to sit around and face your obvious death.
Was I ever wrong.
The moment you found my sister and I on your return, you killed her. I was stunned; I had no idea how you could have gotten maybe a year worth of power in about a week.
Soon I was at your mercy. You stood over me, sword pointed at my face. At that point, my ego was so hurt all I could do was sit there and watch you plunge that wretched thing into my chest and then jerk it out at an angle that reminded me of an operation long since past.
The last I remember of you was that terrible scowl on your face. And yet, I could be wrong, but was that a smile when you let go of that finishing ki blast?
Now here I am, sitting in Hell writing this to you. Maybe it will fill in some of the gaps, maybe it won't. And how harmful could a letter be? If you don't believe a word in this, I understand.
And maybe if I go for the next thousand years or so on good behavior, I'll get to visit you in heaven and see your beautiful eyes again.
Juunanagou
P.S.
You bastard.