Hands. Hands that carry. Hands that birth. Hands that mend.
Hands. Hands that take. Take everything you know. Everything you need. Everything you love.
Hope, thoughts hazy as he stared out of his window, passively observing passers by, mumbling incoherently to himself, began to think about the last occasion on which he had touched his mothers hands. Had it been a week ? A month ? A year ? All concept of time had escaped him, along with any other sign of vivacity he once had. His mind drifted to her face. To her lips, to her nose, to her eyes, to everything that made her who she was. Then a sweet, sugared lullaby began to play in his head, against his will. He pictured her, caressing him to sleep with her voice, arms as a fortress, breath warm on his forehead. Her delicate chords resonated in his mind.
Hope rested his face on his arms. He shut his eyes softly, hoping his unconscious self would take over, escorting him to sleep. Perhaps, if he rested long enough, he would dream of her. It was the only way he could keep her alive, if only for a little bit. He had developed a habit of sleeping. He enjoyed the darkness, the peace, the calm. But most of all, the young boy relished the few seconds after he woke when his mind was blank : no pain, no sadness, no acknowledgement of the egregious truth he faced every instant of his existence.
Just as he felt the precocious night tugging him into the dark depths of his soul, a slow, hesitant knock resonated from behind him. Angered by the intrusion, he paid no attention to it. A familiar voice pierced the silence, making him sigh.
"Hope, it's me. Unlock the door, son."
It was his father, the notorious Bartholomew Estheim, widowed age thirty-seven. Hope denied his entry even more than before.
Following his mother's death, Hope began to grow bitter. He couldn't explain his loss. He was unable to comprehend how something so precious, so vital to him could be stolen brutally. Eventually, as Man does, he found someone to take the blame. His father, guilty for his previous lack of interest into his son's life, undertook the task of saving him from himself. His attempts, every one as futile as the last, grew tiring to Hope, who remained cold. With each effort, each pathetic smile, each condescending conversation, the young boy's hatred grew stronger and his reserved attitude blossomed.
Hope, sensing his father had left, forgot his former plan, and began to stare out into Palumpolum drowsily once again. Instantly, as he gaze through the glass, something sparked his attention.
A young women was walking up the path to his home.
"A visitor ?" Hope mumbled to himself, voice groggy.
He continued to stare at her from his bedroom. Perfect posture, wide, confident steps, soft hair blowing in the breeze, a stern expression painted on the pretty lines of her face.
"Why is she visiting my dad ?"
He couldn't detach his gaze from her stature as she moved effortlessly towards his front door. She stopped for a moment, her eyes on the floor, before glancing up at Hope. Flustered, he took a step back, moving away from the window. Blood rushed to his face before he collapsed on the chaotic sheets of his bed.
He breathed carefully, slowing his heartbeats down to a normal tempo. He lay there for a while, contemplating her arrival, throwing theories as he tried to come up with an explanation. It had been a while since he had been this preoccupied with something.
Stopping him abruptly in his tracks was the sound of his father's voice. He was calling him. Intrigued, Hope left his cocoon of solace.
In the living room, he found his father sitting on one of two sofas available. The other was being occupied by the young woman from before.
He gasped slightly as he saw her.
Legs crossed, back straight, arms folded, she stared at Hope intently as his father spoke.
"Hope, this is... uh..."
"Lightning. My name is Lightning." She corrected, facade indifferent as she continued to look at the young boy.
"Oh, yes. Sorry. They didn't give me your name when I called the base." His father said, quietly, looking at the floor. He turned around to look at his son, who was still standing, body limp, blushing. "She's here to help. To help... you."
Suddenly Hope broke his gaze from the woman, and directed his attention to his father. Nevertheless, he could sense her eyes burning his face.
"But I don't... I mean... I don't need any help." Hope muttered, shaking his head.
"Hope. You don't eat, you don't talk to anyone, you barely attend school. I'm worried about you. I wa- I need my son back."
"You never had me in the first place." Hope responded sourly, no longer paying attention to their guest.
The pink haired girl cleared her throat.
"If you don't mind, sir, I would like to speak with Hope, on my own."
"Oh." A stunned Bartholomew whispered. "O-okay. I'll be waiting outside."
He rose from his seat, and rested a hand on his son's shoulder empathetically before slipping outside.
The young woman gestured for him to sit. Hope did so, still in awe, a slight gap in between his lips.
His heart fluttered as he grew anxious. Cheeks pinker than before, hands becoming moist.
"Hello." Hope gazed up at the woman. A smile tugged gently at her lips. " Before you say anything, I'm not a psychologist. My name is Lightning Farron and I'm a soldier in the Guardian Corps."
"What... Then why are you here ?" Hope stared at his feet, his voice barely audible.
"I was like you once. We were the same." Her soft smile grew, blue eyes tried to find his hidden gaze. "How old are you, Hope ?"
"Fourteen. Fifteen soon, mam."
"We were even the same age. Ironic." She shook her head gently.
Hope took a deep breath. "Mam, I don't know what you're here for, but trust me... I'm, well, fine. I don't need your help."
"I lost someone too. And so I understand what you're going through. But if you let me, I'll make everything easier." She spoke so eloquently.
"I don't understand." He muttered, lips pursed.
"Have you ever heard of cognitive behavioral therapy, Hope ?"
Hope shook his head.
"It's a form of mental behavior training. In cases like yours... like ours, the subject begins to act differently when faced with everyday situations. There are a few observations one could make, such as an inability to deal with ones feelings, trouble taking about your past and the denial of how your life has changed." The young woman cocked her head to the side, her faint smile fading."I've seen it before. I've been through it before. These feelings, that to you must now seem so familiar, are slowly eating away at the wonderful person you are, the wonderful person you are growing up to be. You've lived this way for too long. It's time to move on now."
" What if I don't want to move on ? I just... What you said... That's not me. I'm... normal." Hope could feel the tears coming. They stung. He batted his eyelids and they streamed down his candid face. "Excuse me." He got up and headed for his bedroom.
"I'm not asking you to give up the memory of her." Her voice shot from behind him, stopping him in his tracks.
"I don't know who you are ! I don't know what you want." Hope shut his eyes tight and hid his face, back turned to her. "The only thing I do know... Is that these feelings... are a part of me. Nothing is going to change. Ever. Not even if an army of soldiers tried to help me ! It's simply impossible !"
"All I'm asking for is three days, to make you see that you don't have to be this way. What you're doing is killing you and the people you love. Hope, if you let me, we can make the impossible possible..."
A/N : The introduction / prologue for my three part story. I've wanted to write about Hope for a while now. I really disliked him at first, but he grew on me (especially in FFXIII-2). The information in this chapter isn't overwhelming to stay the least, but I just wanted to offer you a taste of what's to come. :)
Feedback is very welcome. You can check out my other stories via my profile. If you have any questions or requests, review or PM me. :)