A/N: Let's be honest here. This started out as a little musing of what I had inside my head, then turned out to be Aya's POV and from there it transformed into a piece of FanFiction, that for a start was supposed to be a one-shot, but since the plot that crossed my mind was too long, will be a multi-parter. I don't know what this will come out to be. Choosing the genre, even, was difficult.
Anyway, I will continue eventually, but not soon. Most likely. Who knows. I hate promising, since whenever I do that I always have to break the promise somehow. Maybe I won't continue at all and the same thing'll happen to this that happened to my previous WK multi-parter. (a.k.a. Mr. Trashcan)
One more thing. I don't remember ever writing from the first person point of view. I might have done that, but don't remember. Don't ask why I told you this.
And guess who is babbling too much again?
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
~ Write It Down ~
Chapter 1 : Request
Aya POV
'I know what this world is about. I know it's not pink rose petals and candyfloss clouds. I have seen the dark sides of it perhaps too closely for my own good and I know how cold it can be, how much it can hurt you. That's why I am what I seem to be. Cold, emotionless; a bastard who has created himself an armour of ice and lets no one near him.
I am comfortable with it. It's my hideout, my only way to survive. I am afraid that if someday I was able to smile, laugh and love, that if someday the sun shone and birds sang, I would wake up. The worst would be to notice that it had all been a dream and that I had lived all my life in a twenty-minute moment, and for nothing. That it all would still be ahead.
I know what I'm said to be, and I completely agree, for I am trapped into a cold, dark cave that has no entry and with every step I take my body is cut, wounded. Usually it's the heart and that's why I don't use it too much for feeling. I need it to run my blood-circulation, since I still have one.
I want to secure my back. When I kill, I kill and don't hesitate. I have to be sure I'm doing everything correctly so that when the joyful day comes and I die, I have nothing that I'd be sorry for not doing.
Even though I am eagerly waiting for death I don't rush it. I know it comes when the time is right; when I've been here long enough. There is no reason for me to slit my wrists or sent bullet through my brains just to get out of here. First of all, I'd die unhappy and secondly I would regret it. I am sure of it.
Life hurts, that's the cruel truth, if something.'
I put down the pen I held and read through what I had written. It was the same jazz day after day, but if it helped even a little for me to write it down, it was bearable. Even though I felt like a depressed teenager writing dark poetry, I still wrote. It was a hobby, you could say.
When I wrote, I wanted everything to be true. I hate to lie, most of all to myself. True, I wear my armour daily, but that's the truth to those who 'know' me, so it's not exactly lying. It is true too, that I keep some things to myself, but that's not lying either. I myself am someone I can't lie to, and I try to avoid it.
Toying with the pen I held, I began to wonder why I even wrote. I could only have spoken out loud or just simply thought of what I had in mind. Maybe writing was something that represented the truth to me. I had evidence about what I had thought then and then and it helped me to keep the small bits of sanity that I still carried, together.
There was a knock on the door and with a practised routine I crumpled the sheet of paper and threw it into the trash can. Then with a quick move I swiped away the pen and picked up a book from my nightstand.
"What?" I asked whomever was behind my door.
"You wanna eat?"
It was the walking cancer-hazard's voice. He kept on pounding my door with his knuckles even though he very much likely understood that I had heard him.
"Why would I?" I retorted, now actually paying attention to the text on the book I had first only pretended to be reading.
"Sorry, forgot you don't do such earthly things," was the mocking reply from outside the door and soon after I heard footsteps retreating. I knew he would walk to the two others and soon Omi would come running behind my door, perhaps even slam to it in his hurry, and ask worriedly if everything was alright.
They all just cared a little bit too much. Well, exception and bonus points for Yoji though. I don't think he had ever given a spinning shit about me or my mood. If something happened to me on a mission he usually just asked if there was something terribly wrong. If there wasn't he didn't stay to worry about smaller wounds; it was the two others' task.
There was another knock on the door and, just as I had expected, I heard Omi's worried voice ask if everything was alright. I smiled faintly to myself and informed the little empath that I was perfectly fine and that I just wasn't hungry.
I could almost hear him staring at the door worriedly and the turning away with a sigh. The others would all eat more today than usually.
~*~
I hadn't remembered that the book I was reading had been so interesting. I had kept it on my table only as a scene if anyone ever happened to walk in when I was writing. I had planned that if that ever happened I could always say that I was only copying something from the aforementioned book. No one would ask me any details, since as far as I knew I was the only one of us who ever bothers to do something cultivating.
My thoughts were distracted by a one more knock on my door. Taking a quick look on the clock on my nightstand I realized it had been nearly two hours since Omi had given up on trying to feed me.
I sighed and put down my book.
"What now?" I asked irritably.
The door opened and I saw Yoji standing there, leaning now to the doorframe.
"Yes?" I asked trying to sound as if I didn't want anyone to annoy me. To make it clearer I returned to the book and wished it would drive the man away.
Yoji took a step forward, closed the door, walked across the floor and sat down on a chair on the opposite wall of my bed where I was sitting and reading.
I didn't bother to use the questioning 'Yes?' again, so I just looked at him, my glare asking what the hell did he exactly want.
A not-promising smirk appeared on his face. He crossed his fingers and leaned a little bit forward, trying to look somewhat cunning. To me it didn't have the right effect but most likely he believed in it, so maybe that was all that mattered there.
"I didn't know you were much of a writer," he said with a smug grin. "But apparently you are."
I shot him a death glare, that anyone who somehow managed to read what I had written always receives and told him to explain. He took a familiar looking piece of paper out of his pocket and waved it in the air.
"I found this laying around and was curious. Anyone would recognize your kanji and since I was PI and all, it was easy to figure out who the poet is."
"And I suppose you read it," I breathed. I must have looked very suffering then since the chair-invader grinned sadistically. I knew, somehow, that telling me I wasn't a bad writer wasn't the only thing he had come and invaded my chair.
"I said I recognized your kanji, didn't I? Anyway, I need you to do me a favor."
I closed my eyes for a moment and slowly began to count to ten. No, triple it. It wouldn't be long until I'd jump up, get my katana and stuff it through the sad excuse of brains the blonde had inside his head. If I were lucky I might hit something vital.
"What do you want?" I opened my eyes and sighed quietly. I wanted the idiot out of my hair. He had interrupted my moment of disappearing into a non-existent world.
"Well... There is this ladyfriend of mine-"
"I don't write that kind of rubbish," I informed, hoping the discussion would be over by that.
"Aya, please, my ass is on the line here!"
"Well, frankly, I don't give a damn about your ass. Now move that part of yours I don't give a damn about out of that door over there and leave me alone," I told him, but apparently his thick skull didn't let such an un-important information reach his brains.
"Aya... Please," he used his best impersonation of Omi's puppy-dog face and tried to make me give in. That looked worked on me when used by Omi, but because of years' training to learn how to ignore Yoji's attempts to try and use me for his twisted schemes, I ignored the look on the blonde's face.
"No."
"Please."
"I told no once, no, twice, and am not going to say it anymore."
"Please."
"You can keep on doing that for the whole evening, for all I care."
"Please, Aya, please."
This was beginning to really bug me. It wasn't long until Yoji was spitting out ten 'please' s in a minute and driving me to the wall. Apparently it was his way to make me yield, and it, sadly for me, worked.
"Alright! Anything if you just stop that," I snapped. "But no overly-tacky mush."
I could have sworn there were stars in Yoji's eyes as he thanked me and told me I was his guardian angel. Ignoring the fact that I wasn't, I told Yoji to drag his being out of the door and promised to return to this 'please, write something romantic for my ladyfriend for me, please' issue later.
The door finally shut, I sighed deeply and returned to my book, silently wondering what the hell I had just done.
~*~ TBC? ~*~
So, how bad was it? Leave a review if you want me to continue. I'll get loads of motivation from reviews. *hint hint* ^^ And by the way, does anyone else think the plot is very predictable?
Is 'empath' a word?
Anyway, I will continue eventually, but not soon. Most likely. Who knows. I hate promising, since whenever I do that I always have to break the promise somehow. Maybe I won't continue at all and the same thing'll happen to this that happened to my previous WK multi-parter. (a.k.a. Mr. Trashcan)
One more thing. I don't remember ever writing from the first person point of view. I might have done that, but don't remember. Don't ask why I told you this.
And guess who is babbling too much again?
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
~ Write It Down ~
Chapter 1 : Request
Aya POV
'I know what this world is about. I know it's not pink rose petals and candyfloss clouds. I have seen the dark sides of it perhaps too closely for my own good and I know how cold it can be, how much it can hurt you. That's why I am what I seem to be. Cold, emotionless; a bastard who has created himself an armour of ice and lets no one near him.
I am comfortable with it. It's my hideout, my only way to survive. I am afraid that if someday I was able to smile, laugh and love, that if someday the sun shone and birds sang, I would wake up. The worst would be to notice that it had all been a dream and that I had lived all my life in a twenty-minute moment, and for nothing. That it all would still be ahead.
I know what I'm said to be, and I completely agree, for I am trapped into a cold, dark cave that has no entry and with every step I take my body is cut, wounded. Usually it's the heart and that's why I don't use it too much for feeling. I need it to run my blood-circulation, since I still have one.
I want to secure my back. When I kill, I kill and don't hesitate. I have to be sure I'm doing everything correctly so that when the joyful day comes and I die, I have nothing that I'd be sorry for not doing.
Even though I am eagerly waiting for death I don't rush it. I know it comes when the time is right; when I've been here long enough. There is no reason for me to slit my wrists or sent bullet through my brains just to get out of here. First of all, I'd die unhappy and secondly I would regret it. I am sure of it.
Life hurts, that's the cruel truth, if something.'
I put down the pen I held and read through what I had written. It was the same jazz day after day, but if it helped even a little for me to write it down, it was bearable. Even though I felt like a depressed teenager writing dark poetry, I still wrote. It was a hobby, you could say.
When I wrote, I wanted everything to be true. I hate to lie, most of all to myself. True, I wear my armour daily, but that's the truth to those who 'know' me, so it's not exactly lying. It is true too, that I keep some things to myself, but that's not lying either. I myself am someone I can't lie to, and I try to avoid it.
Toying with the pen I held, I began to wonder why I even wrote. I could only have spoken out loud or just simply thought of what I had in mind. Maybe writing was something that represented the truth to me. I had evidence about what I had thought then and then and it helped me to keep the small bits of sanity that I still carried, together.
There was a knock on the door and with a practised routine I crumpled the sheet of paper and threw it into the trash can. Then with a quick move I swiped away the pen and picked up a book from my nightstand.
"What?" I asked whomever was behind my door.
"You wanna eat?"
It was the walking cancer-hazard's voice. He kept on pounding my door with his knuckles even though he very much likely understood that I had heard him.
"Why would I?" I retorted, now actually paying attention to the text on the book I had first only pretended to be reading.
"Sorry, forgot you don't do such earthly things," was the mocking reply from outside the door and soon after I heard footsteps retreating. I knew he would walk to the two others and soon Omi would come running behind my door, perhaps even slam to it in his hurry, and ask worriedly if everything was alright.
They all just cared a little bit too much. Well, exception and bonus points for Yoji though. I don't think he had ever given a spinning shit about me or my mood. If something happened to me on a mission he usually just asked if there was something terribly wrong. If there wasn't he didn't stay to worry about smaller wounds; it was the two others' task.
There was another knock on the door and, just as I had expected, I heard Omi's worried voice ask if everything was alright. I smiled faintly to myself and informed the little empath that I was perfectly fine and that I just wasn't hungry.
I could almost hear him staring at the door worriedly and the turning away with a sigh. The others would all eat more today than usually.
~*~
I hadn't remembered that the book I was reading had been so interesting. I had kept it on my table only as a scene if anyone ever happened to walk in when I was writing. I had planned that if that ever happened I could always say that I was only copying something from the aforementioned book. No one would ask me any details, since as far as I knew I was the only one of us who ever bothers to do something cultivating.
My thoughts were distracted by a one more knock on my door. Taking a quick look on the clock on my nightstand I realized it had been nearly two hours since Omi had given up on trying to feed me.
I sighed and put down my book.
"What now?" I asked irritably.
The door opened and I saw Yoji standing there, leaning now to the doorframe.
"Yes?" I asked trying to sound as if I didn't want anyone to annoy me. To make it clearer I returned to the book and wished it would drive the man away.
Yoji took a step forward, closed the door, walked across the floor and sat down on a chair on the opposite wall of my bed where I was sitting and reading.
I didn't bother to use the questioning 'Yes?' again, so I just looked at him, my glare asking what the hell did he exactly want.
A not-promising smirk appeared on his face. He crossed his fingers and leaned a little bit forward, trying to look somewhat cunning. To me it didn't have the right effect but most likely he believed in it, so maybe that was all that mattered there.
"I didn't know you were much of a writer," he said with a smug grin. "But apparently you are."
I shot him a death glare, that anyone who somehow managed to read what I had written always receives and told him to explain. He took a familiar looking piece of paper out of his pocket and waved it in the air.
"I found this laying around and was curious. Anyone would recognize your kanji and since I was PI and all, it was easy to figure out who the poet is."
"And I suppose you read it," I breathed. I must have looked very suffering then since the chair-invader grinned sadistically. I knew, somehow, that telling me I wasn't a bad writer wasn't the only thing he had come and invaded my chair.
"I said I recognized your kanji, didn't I? Anyway, I need you to do me a favor."
I closed my eyes for a moment and slowly began to count to ten. No, triple it. It wouldn't be long until I'd jump up, get my katana and stuff it through the sad excuse of brains the blonde had inside his head. If I were lucky I might hit something vital.
"What do you want?" I opened my eyes and sighed quietly. I wanted the idiot out of my hair. He had interrupted my moment of disappearing into a non-existent world.
"Well... There is this ladyfriend of mine-"
"I don't write that kind of rubbish," I informed, hoping the discussion would be over by that.
"Aya, please, my ass is on the line here!"
"Well, frankly, I don't give a damn about your ass. Now move that part of yours I don't give a damn about out of that door over there and leave me alone," I told him, but apparently his thick skull didn't let such an un-important information reach his brains.
"Aya... Please," he used his best impersonation of Omi's puppy-dog face and tried to make me give in. That looked worked on me when used by Omi, but because of years' training to learn how to ignore Yoji's attempts to try and use me for his twisted schemes, I ignored the look on the blonde's face.
"No."
"Please."
"I told no once, no, twice, and am not going to say it anymore."
"Please."
"You can keep on doing that for the whole evening, for all I care."
"Please, Aya, please."
This was beginning to really bug me. It wasn't long until Yoji was spitting out ten 'please' s in a minute and driving me to the wall. Apparently it was his way to make me yield, and it, sadly for me, worked.
"Alright! Anything if you just stop that," I snapped. "But no overly-tacky mush."
I could have sworn there were stars in Yoji's eyes as he thanked me and told me I was his guardian angel. Ignoring the fact that I wasn't, I told Yoji to drag his being out of the door and promised to return to this 'please, write something romantic for my ladyfriend for me, please' issue later.
The door finally shut, I sighed deeply and returned to my book, silently wondering what the hell I had just done.
~*~ TBC? ~*~
So, how bad was it? Leave a review if you want me to continue. I'll get loads of motivation from reviews. *hint hint* ^^ And by the way, does anyone else think the plot is very predictable?
Is 'empath' a word?