A new ficlette from me...this time it's a little bit darker than my past things. I'm not really sure why; I'm allowed to have a change sometimes, huh? Anyway, I'd like to send a huge amount of thank-yous to those who reviewed my last two things. I really appreciate it!
One Piece isn't mine, but this ficlette is. Flames will be used to dry my laundry.
Non-graphic character death.
Await
a One Piece fanfiction by MangoPirate
They said she was a sentry.
Perhaps that was the best word for her; after all, she never left her watch-spot. At any given time of the day a passerby could look up, sheilding his eyes against the sunlight, and see her standing there. At night, the moon shone against her deathly pale skin, and she stood out like the ghost of a lifetime of memories buried just below the surface of the mind. She never left the spot.
He had left her behind with a promise to return. She clung to that promise for dear life in the most literal of senses. But months had turned into years, and years into decades, and with each new day she cried for longer and longed for him even more. She had never understood when he was there how very much she needed him; his absence grew in her heart as the leaves on the tree just outside her window regenerated every spring.
She had a grand house and many caretakers and suitors who came from worlds away--she did not want for company. Whatever she said was divine; whatever she wanted was hers for the taking.
Except for him.
Why had she believed him? She tore at her emotions with that thought each new day. Nothing he had ever done before gave her reason to believe him. Why had she fallen for such a silly ploy? Some day she blamed herself.
And other days...other days, she blamed him. Why had he lied this time? He had no reason to treat her that way. Tell her stories, tell her fables, tell her things that didn't matter. A broken heart...that mattered much more. That was more than a little giggle and more than a happy smile. It was...more than she had words for...
Slowly the time she spent staring out her window at the horizon grew, and she found herself standing there and gazing forward for hours, and hours, and finally days. The caretakers of her house could do nothing with her. Suitors were turned away. The once-grand mansion fell into disrepair, and slowly the caretakers asked her for a pardon from work...or some simply left.
All save one. He stayed behind; stayed with his mistress. He stood with her each day for hours. He convinced her to eat enough to stay alive. He joked and talked and brushed her hair back away from her face in a parental gesture. He grew old as the years passed. He watched her slowly sink into an inescapable darkness, and could do nothing to save her. His daily meager offerings of food kept her alive physically; his care did so emotionally. Everyone else in her life was gone, and he was the only constant. The house was slowly falling apart; the mistress was slowly destroying herself.
One day she was given news by the lone remaining caretaker.
A ship had docked in the harbor. A single, crewless captain had walked directly, determinedly, to the great house. With a quivering voice he had given the news to the caretaker--the one the lonesome woman waited for was not coming back.
She took the news with dignity. Her skin, pulled tight across her bones, took on a sickly green tint, but she remained standing, clenching her fists and swallowing roughly. Her eyes brimmed with crystal tears.
The caretaker begged her to leave the window. She shook her head in refusal, digging her fingernails into her palms. He spoke soothing words to her, but she shouted at him to leave.
He left. He did not come back for weeks.
She sunk to her knees at some point, resting her head against the windowsill and sobbing with all the strength left in her frail body. Every last bit of life she possessed bubbled forth into wailings, screamings of his name, and deep cries of emotional anguish. She spent a day in this way.
When the moon struck that side of the dilapidated mansion, there was no pale figure in the window.
When the caretaker looked up to the window with the morning sunlight, and saw that she was not there, he rushed to the room. He found her there, curled against the wall as though asleep, with a much more peaceful expression than had graced her features in many long years. She was perfectly still. He sat beside her, not suprised, but not ready; he looked at her and cried for hours.
He paid no heed to the yellowed crayon drawing of a large goldfish that sprawled on the floor some distance away.
Well, reviews are greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading!