By: Kai Yuy
Okay, I don't own GW. 'Nuff said.
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I have often contemplated flying. Not the flying that I did during the war, but the flying without metal wings, the flying that lets your soul ride the breezes. The type of flying that lets you go beyond the stars and the endless sea of the galaxy. The flying that brings a slow ecstasy through your veins and frees you, completely.
But my soul is far to heavy for that kind of flying. Instead, I lie here, frozen in the barrenness of this ex-soldier's life, the sky but a distant memory.
I wish I could fly.
But then, if I was soaring over my troubles, wouldn't I be prone to encountering everyone else's? I would see the Earth from the point of veiw of space, and the colonies, and I would see the raw pain, sadness, hunger, anger, hurt. Once, I had seen such things. Now I distanced myself from them.
There were others, I'm sure, who thought like me. The four I had fought with, and against, during the war. The ones that had never been my allies even, like Zechs. I'm sure that the others, like Sally, and Noin, thought it everytime they looked at the sky, like I did.
There was only one person really, that came to mind who wouldn't feel the pull. Relena. She was flying through the sky, and other's troubles didn't seem to eat away at her. Maybe that's because she's numb. I think she always has been numb. And that's why I never killed her.
I want her to live with that numbness, and struggle to regain her feelings, like I used to. I want her to fight for her unatainable peace, and never realize that her ideals are bullshit. I want that to break her. Because she'll never feel it. We really are a lot alike, now that I think of it.
I blamed people like her for what had happened to me. I blamed her for cowaring safely under the net of protection I had cast out. She escaped the war unscathed, while I took every blow for her. I carry all her scars, and my own. And the more I think of her, the more I hate her.
She's innocent, cruelfully so. She still calls, sometimes, trying stupidly to lure me out of my depression. And I laugh at her, and she stupidly believes that I'm laughing at her charm, or something, because then, she stupidly begins to laugh. And she's laughing at herself, because I am. Stupidly.
I think, that if I had the emotional capacity to miss someone, there's only one person I'd really miss. Because even he knew when to shut up, and stop laughing, to take of his jester's mask and inwardly cry. I wonder where he is. I think he's sent me some letters, but I don't read my mail anymore. It seems trivial, almost.
For now, I hold fast to the empty promise of flying. I don't really care for living much, it's just something to do, because death seems to quiet. The soft oblivion is all I really deserve. Not heaven, for I have sinned, and not hell, for I have saved. Instead, my death promises me nothingness. And even I'm not ready for that yet.
Someday, I plan on calling him. And I plan on telling him that I'd miss him, if I knew what "to miss" means. And I'm sure he'll understand. He's really the only one who ever does. And then, we'll both fly, because, surely, we can lift eachother's souls up, above the clouds.