OK so here's my first attempt at one of those famous little things called "one-shots". I don't do that thing...where an author has about four stories on the go, and they don't get updated equally, etc.

So a nifty little piece which I hope someone enjoys...

Summary: As he lays dying, the stereotypical process of reflection plays through his mind, and he wonders on his actions...or 'non'-actions, as it were

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or anything of the sort associated with the BeyBlade series.

Rating: K- it is suitable for all ages

If That Was Life

Death follows life.

It is the expected and extremely common occurrence that happens all over the world, to every living thing, no exception.

It comes inevitably, like the fresh and quick pain that accompanies a bandage being ripped off as fast as possible in the hopes of getting it all over with and being able to push it to the back of one's mind. Supposedly, the faster, the better.

Life is a fast, vibrant experience. It is full of everything; surprises, good and bad; relationships, long, meaningful, or short fun flings; hate, love, anger, joy, disappointment, fulfillment, poverty, prosperity.

In short, every thing has an opposite, and that is how we balance out.

Life can be a scary aspect, as can Death. Each uncertain of where the path will lead, proving to be competent enough to throw in treacherous twists that can make or break us. We all strive to make the most of Life, while we can.

No point trying to succeed in Life when you're dead now, is there?

Laying silently between the cool white sheets on his bed, he was tuning out the kind old nurse that sadly informed him he would die.

Within a matter of hours.

That was no big surprise; life-support only supported one so long. After relying on it for...how many months was it now? Four? Perhaps...he couldn't quite recall; time meant nothing to him here, where he stared at the plain ceiling.

It had actually provided him most of his entertainment during his stay; was it white, beige, or maybe a very dull brown? The dim lighting which was supposedly beneficial to his health did nothing to answer this thought-provoking inquiry.

He'd taken to reflecting on his past, and this was something he did not undertake lightly. Reflection entailed an end, a chapter being closed forever on an event. It meant looking back and studying, scrutinizing every single detail and figuring out whether or not there was anything worth regretting.

Since he had all the time in the world, he thought that he may as well do something as he lay, waiting for the Grim Reaper to come knocking on his door.

Or, more suitably perhaps, waiting for the Grim Reaper to come and rip his soul from his earthly body (assuming he had a soul) and sending it on a never-ending journey of damnation through the nine levels of Hell.

At least, where else would he end up? He mused again, for what must be the millionth time. This whole reflecting deal he'd taken up had shown him that there really was nowhere that he would be better suited for; there was Limbo, but that seemed a bit too tame for the likes of him.

There were the many instances of betrayal, for one. Leaving behind people that had called him a companion, the call to which he answered with mock sincerity, because he did not do anything whole-heartedly unless it would benefit him totally.

The faces of those he had left, treated like dirt, all of their assorted reactions, had replayed over and over in his mind all these long weeks. Truth be told, it was getting tiresome.

He knew firsthand how they all had reacted to everything and anything he had done; he was there when the shock was evident on their faces, and he was there when it slipped to make room for anger, disbelief, and, for some, hurt.

Well, that was what they got, wasn't it? When they put their faith so absolutely in one being, trusting one with their feelings and thinking that they were close enough to care about one another.

How he loathed "feelings".

At least...he used to. Now, his outlook on them was unsure; he couldn't decide if he really hated emotions, or just the thought of them. Forever he had been accused of having no heart, no soul, just the iron-clad will to dominate, be recognized.

That had been his goal most of his life; to achieve recognition. Perhaps as a world leader, a politician of sorts, or maybe he could be a great peacemaker, or a hero in a war...

Life taught him a cruel lesson as he matured. It was all well and good to desire these things, and believe that you would get what you want, simply because the will, the hopes and dreams have resided within for so long; it begins to be seen as something that is owed to you, an entitlement.

He learned the hard way that there are others who want exactly what he sought after, yet they were more than willing to compromise their sense of morals, if they once possessed any, in order to attain that special-to-them stature.

He'd had to face a most difficult question all through his life: Was he personally that desperate- no, that determined- to get what he wanted to go so far as to resort to chicanery, and deceit? For if he gained anything using those attributes, his whole desired dream, if he reached it, would be tainted.

There's nothing worse than getting what one wants by tricking and lying their way to it; then it is a hollow victory, something that is not deserved. This is something that they always know, deep in the back of their minds, where it that realization has been pushed so as to enjoy what has come to fruition after years of striving hard.

Then he had done it. Regardless of what he had vowed when he was younger, and believed that he could rise up while being honest, and employing the Golden Rule of "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

Reality sank in soon, and he hardened his heart and eliminated his conscience and thus became who he was today. Or had been, before he was reduced to this sickly state.

He truly had been the worst of the bunch. He lied, cheated, stole, bribed, and corrupted his way to the top.

Somewhere along the way, he had realized that if he could not be noticed for his efforts at aiding people, then the next best thing would be to gain attention by being feared. That's a common thought shared by most after all, right?

If you can't be cool, be feared, to put it bluntly.

So here he was, an invalid stuck in his own room at his home. The nurse that attended to him was a private one, a live-in. And he knew that she was going to stop the life-support; he didn't much care, and he knew she had the authorization to do so.

It was a rather anti-climatic end to his life, he reflected. He felt as though he hadn't lived very long at all, as though there was something else, something more he needed. But what? Maybe...

The door swung open silently and admitted the nurse. She stood for a moment at the end of his bed, fingers grasping the extra blanket lying at the end and twisting it around. She began to speak to him, her voice low and serious.

He never paid her much heed; all she did was spout medical nonsense that he could not understand nor care about. It was only when he could hear through the haze of his mind "life-support" that he figured it would be best to listen.

"...possible treatments have been done as you know, and there is the fact that you yourself said to do this when you reached the state of inactivity. Since that time has come, I will use my judgement and sense and stop the machines." She took a breath and gripped the quilt tightly before dropping it from her grip.

"After I have done this, you will...pass on after some minutes. It varies with everybody, but the common wait period is no more than half an hour."Moving around the side of the bed, she stared down at him for a moment.

He glanced over at her; she was on the side of the machines and had begun to sneak her hand down, slowly to the outlet to unplug them. He inwardly sighed; she didn't want him to see her do this. How could someone not know when they are about to be killed? And in such a degrading manner.

He resumed watching the flat ceiling, ignoring the presence of the woman. He'd been thinking about something before she interrupted him...that he needed something else. Then it came to him. He knew what he needed, what he required in order to die. It was what so many sought after...one word:

Closure.

Ahh yes, that was it. People were always seeking it out, to move past a traumatic experience; a friend murdered, an abduction, etc. He found it ironic that he was the one wanting closure, when he had been the cause for some rather disturbing instances himself.

There was a sudden feeling in the back of his skull. It was as though a hand had reached up through the base and pushed itself into his mind, and was scrambling around, exploring and knocking against him. He didn't like it. Not that it hurt, it just felt irritating. He forced himself to overlook it; he had something to do.

There was one person he wanted to talk to. There was one person alone that he needed to talk to. If he did this, then closure would be granted, and he could perhaps rest in peace.

Or at the very least, the fires of Hell may not be so hot.

There was a portable phone in his room, it was in his line of sight, just to the left of the bed. He idly toyed with the idea that he could reach it for himself. No, he knew that was not possible; he was in his "state of inactivity" as it were, not to mention he would be dead soon. At least he knew he could talk.

A cold fist gripped his heart at that thought. He would be dead soon. He, the Great–

Oh, what did it matter now who he was? In Satan's eyes, all are just playthings.

Again the door opened, and the familiar brown head appeared. She saw he still lived, still breathed, though it was an obvious laboured effort now. He met her eyes with his own, and held her with his glare as he summoned the strength to speak.

"I want...call him." He managed in a somewhat steady voice. She opened the door fully and came around and sat at the edge of his bed.

"Did you say you wanted to call someone?" she asked in a soft tone, confusion in her eyes. He hadn't had contact with anyone for nearly the entire duration of his hospitalization in his own home.

"F-first entry...phone book," he specified, flicking his gaze over to the bedside night table upon which rested the phone and a silver, hard-cover phone and address book.

"I don't believe that, under the circumstances, I can allow this. You are dying, sir, and it will occur soon, and as–"

"Now." He made it clear that he wanted this and would not permit any questions. She sighed and watched him, debating with herself on this issue. Again he felt the sensation in his mind; it was like a knocking almost, someone softly tapping as though asking for his attention.

He knew if he were to pay heed to it, he would be dead and thus would have lost his chance. So he forced himself to block it out.

The presence of a cool object against his ear startled him slightly, and a low droning emitted. He nearly pulled away when he realized it was the phone propped up against his pillow, the mouthpiece down where it should be; the droning was the ringing on the other end.

She had left him alone, the phone balanced between his shoulder, ear, and pillow. He swallowed with some difficulty and anxiously waited -and dreaded- the person picking up the phone. There was an abrupt click and the ringing stopped.

"Hello?"

Breath caught in his chest as the familiar voice filled his mind. This one person; all he needed from him was to hear him say, "I forgive you", or at least acknowledge his reasons for doing what he did.

"Hello?" The voice repeated, with an impatient tone lacing the word. He had to speak or he would lose this opportunity.

"Yes...I—" What? He what? What was he going to say? 'I'm sorry'? 'I didn't mean it'? 'I was wrong'?

"You what?" The voice cut through his thoughts, and he would have smiled if he'd known how. He had the feeling that he was known to the other, no matter how weak or low his voice was.

"...not worth it," he answered, softly. He barely heard himself, but when the one on the other end sighed, he knew the message had been received. There was no reply, just the same click followed by a dial tone.

For in these long months, he had wondered: Was it all worth it? The pain, the anger, the betrayal, the hate, the tears, the sense of hopelessness; all through these years, every single thing he had done to harm others, was it all worth it?

He had though so, long ago. With sickness of body comes enlightenment of mind, he'd heard before.

So now he knew. He started to listen and feel the tap-tap-tapping, allowing it to cloud his mind. The dim lights around the room winking at him, as he eyes began to play with gravity, and open and shut, open and shut.

It wasn't the best kind of closure one could get; but for him, right now...it was good enough.

Allowing his eyes to drift closed, he had one lingering thought about the worth and events, about his life, now ending and transforming into death; about the legacy he would perhaps pass on to the world, that someone in the future may look at and wonder. His life was ending now, and he had one thought left:

If that was Life...I lived it.

OK so. my first one-shot...a tad confusing I bet...umm, I'm not saying who I was writing about...I know who, but do you? That is the real question. So say so, if you think you know, and I'll tell you if you're right or not.

Another thing, I realize it may seem a bit far-fetched that he called someone as he was dying...that is why I love fiction. Keep that in mind

Please review.