(A/N: Am I ready to crash and burn? Hell yeah! This is my first time posting in this section...eh heh. I'm a little nervous about this. This is my first serious piece of Akira writing. It's slightly A/U, set probably before the events of the movie. It's also YAOI between Yamagata and Kai. So, don't like that, don't read it. Each of the chapters are based loosely around one of Linkin Park's songs, whose title will then accompany the chapter [if that makes any sense.]Umm....not quite sure what the fic should be rated, but meh. So far, the fic mentions rape and incest, but its not quite "directly" stated. I'm looking forward to feedback on my writing [hint hint] and would greatly appreciate any comments you have. Please, enjoy the fic. Thank you.)
/..../ =Thinking
//...// =Subconcious "other" voice. (Ya know, the ones inside your head? Or am I just odd?)
Disclaimer: I'm Angelblood, or Abee. I'm a poor, 15-year-old fanfic writer without a life and/or job. Add it up. What do you get? "Abee doesn't own Akira." Good, you guys can do math. ^^
~*~*~*~*~*
Just To Tell You
Chapter 1: Somewhere I Belong
The sun sank low over the city, casting frantic Neo-Tokyo in its ancient golden glow. The buildings became dark masses, blocking the view of the horizon. Brakelights glowed and glinted in the fading light. A soft wind blew, gently sending old newspapers skittering down the rancid sidewalk.
Kai drew heavily on his cigarette, watching the night city unfold all around him. /Another sleepless night. Great./
He looked down and flicked the smoking thing in his hand away. The wind rolled it over several times , lifting its smoke high into the air. Kai jammed his hands into his pockets, studying the ground beneath his feet intently. His eyes narrowed in thought. /Why me? Why couldn't it be someone else? Someone who could handle this?/
He looked skywards with a sigh. The blazing sunset was surreal and didn't provide him the answers he was looking for. /I'm so confused.../
It was true. Confusion had pulled itself over him now, drowning him in it. It crept over him now, making his mind twist in frustration and his stomach churn with the sticky, heavy sickness he couldn't seem to shake. This made no sense to him and he couldn't do this, but somewhere, he was going to have to make a choice, a descion...
What if he made the wrong one? Would it screw him up like last time? Or worse? Fear. It wrapped its cold icy claws about him, smirking at him like a devious lover, holding him in place and making him sweat with anxiety. The sick feeling intensified. He felt small. He felt insignificant. He felt so helpless, so weak. He wanted to sink to his knees and cry, but he didn't. He wouldn't, he couldn't - his pride, or what was left of it, wouldn't let him. Instead, he stayed silent, said nothing. It was stupid to be hurt over such a silly thing anyways. But...
A mother wasn't supposed to touch a son like that, was she? All his life, he's been told it was wrong and it was bad and it was sick, disgusting, dirty and a hundred other ugly words. What did that make him? Did it make him wrong and bad and disgusting? Did those words apply to the violator alone, or to the victim as well?
The pain, still as fresh as the day it'd happened, bubbled up inside him, burning his heart and making it wrench and twist in its death throes. She wasn't supposed to do that. She was his mother, or had been, and she wasn't supposed to do that, to touch him like that, to do that to him against his will. She was his mother and it was okay for her to do that with grown-up men, like the ones she'd brought home, but not to him. Never to him.
Sex. The thought of it repulsed him, made him sick, made him want to cry, want to bash his head against a wall to escape the thoughts that always followed the word. Seeing the others do stuff with their girlfriends made him queasy, light-headed and dizzy. He always felt like he was going to faint. Sometimes, he wished he would, just to escape the sights and sounds.
She'd done this to him and he didn't think he'd ever get away from it. That day had changed his life - he'd never seen her again. And despite what she'd done, he could remember spending long nights with tears on his cheeks, wishing for the mother he'd known before then. The sweet, caring mother who hugged him gently when he was scared or hurt. The one who smiled and gave him candy when he did something right. The one who held his hand when he was too scared to do anything at all. The one who read him bed-time stories. But she was gone, dead to him and he was alone, without a friend in this cold, empty place.
And he'd dreamt about it - and he still did - and he woke screaming, sweating, crying, vainly trying to escape the prying hands that terrorized him from the corners of his mind. He'd closed off the world, rarely speaking, keeping to himself. He'd loved her and she'd hurt him and broke him and left him alone. What good was friendship if all it did was hurt him? What good was love if it was only going to break him? And yet...
He wanted to be told that it was okay and that he wasn't a freak because this had happened. It wouldn't happen, it couldn't happen because it wasn't true. It wasn't okay and he was a freak. He blamed himself - it was all his fault that she'd done that to him. Maybe if he hadn't cried so much, maybe if he whadn't been such a scaredy-cat, hadn't messed up so much. Maybe then she wouldn't have done it. But he'd been all those things and she'd done it and it was all his fault.
A part of him deep down knew that it wasn't really his fault but hers. But she was his mother and somehow, he couldn't blame her and he'd buried the truth with lies. It was his fault people called him a freak. And he was. He couldn't bring himself to look at girls like the others did. He was afraid of them, as if he got too close, they'd hurt him again.
And now this. People stared out him, stepped out of his way, avoided him, whispered vile things about him to each other. "Fag," they said. They called him names. A few kids, the ones who weren't afraid of catching this so-called disease of his, had beat him up a couple of times. He remembered how dirt tasted - vile and dusty in his mouth and nose as they shoved his face into the ground. He remembered their jeers and the bruises their kicks and punches had left on him. He remembered spitting dirt and blood and picking gravel out of soon-to-be infected cuts. This was what he deserved. Why couldn't he just be normal? Why couldn't he just fit in with everyone else? He didn't belong here anymore, just like he didn't belong any where else.
Where would he go? There was no where he knew of, no one he knew of. All he knew had been this life. Now, even the gang avoided him like the plague. They wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't go near him. He felt like curling up and dying. He doubted anyone would notice, let alone care.
Slowly, he turned away from the street, preparing to head back up to the place he called "home". Life really wasn't so bad. He had a place to go and spend the long nights, staring up at the cracked ceiling until he felt that his eyes would fall out of their sockets. There was food in the cupboard, he supposed, though he hadn't checked in a while. He really didn't feel like eating anymore. Best of all, he could lock the door and shut the blinds. He could lie down and sob himself silly and complain to his pillow, the ever-patient listener to his pettiness. He could take the knife to his skin and part it gently, make blood ooze out of his body, remind himself that he was still alive, that this was real. He really shouldn't be complaining. There were people who didn't have these luxuries.
Still, he couldn't help but feel alone. He couldn't help but be confused. His shoes clicked on the grimy, dusty stairs. The hot air shimmered in the city behind him. He slid into the place, the rathole he called "home", shutting the door behind him. He faced the room where another night of tears and loneliness awaited him.
/I wanna change this.../
He swept a pile of clothes out of the way with his foot. "There. I changed something."
//Not what you meant.//
He looked disappointedly at the 'change', choking back a sob. /What am I?/
//Alone.//
/I don't wanna be alone./
//Then change it.//
/How?/
//Tell somebody.//
He whimpered. /Nobody would listen to me.../
But as he thought it, his gaze wandered to the phone. There was one person above all others he really wanted to call, to talk to. //So call him.//
He acted on that before he could think it through and before he'd realized what he was doing, he had the reciever in his hand and had dialed the number. /What am I doing?/
The phone was ringing. He swallowed. /I should just hang up./
Too late. There was a click and the voice he'd been dying to hear echoed through his ears. "Hello?"
He swallowed and managed to squeak, "Yamagata?"
The voice on the other end of the line was annoyed. "Yes?"
Kai swallowed and decided that just babbling was better than saying nothing. "Yamagata, it's me, Kai and-"
Click. The line went dead. Slowly, Kai put the reciever back on the cradle. He was alone.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
[A/N: Soooooo....whaddya think? R&R and let me know what you think.]
/..../ =Thinking
//...// =Subconcious "other" voice. (Ya know, the ones inside your head? Or am I just odd?)
Disclaimer: I'm Angelblood, or Abee. I'm a poor, 15-year-old fanfic writer without a life and/or job. Add it up. What do you get? "Abee doesn't own Akira." Good, you guys can do math. ^^
~*~*~*~*~*
Just To Tell You
Chapter 1: Somewhere I Belong
The sun sank low over the city, casting frantic Neo-Tokyo in its ancient golden glow. The buildings became dark masses, blocking the view of the horizon. Brakelights glowed and glinted in the fading light. A soft wind blew, gently sending old newspapers skittering down the rancid sidewalk.
Kai drew heavily on his cigarette, watching the night city unfold all around him. /Another sleepless night. Great./
He looked down and flicked the smoking thing in his hand away. The wind rolled it over several times , lifting its smoke high into the air. Kai jammed his hands into his pockets, studying the ground beneath his feet intently. His eyes narrowed in thought. /Why me? Why couldn't it be someone else? Someone who could handle this?/
He looked skywards with a sigh. The blazing sunset was surreal and didn't provide him the answers he was looking for. /I'm so confused.../
It was true. Confusion had pulled itself over him now, drowning him in it. It crept over him now, making his mind twist in frustration and his stomach churn with the sticky, heavy sickness he couldn't seem to shake. This made no sense to him and he couldn't do this, but somewhere, he was going to have to make a choice, a descion...
What if he made the wrong one? Would it screw him up like last time? Or worse? Fear. It wrapped its cold icy claws about him, smirking at him like a devious lover, holding him in place and making him sweat with anxiety. The sick feeling intensified. He felt small. He felt insignificant. He felt so helpless, so weak. He wanted to sink to his knees and cry, but he didn't. He wouldn't, he couldn't - his pride, or what was left of it, wouldn't let him. Instead, he stayed silent, said nothing. It was stupid to be hurt over such a silly thing anyways. But...
A mother wasn't supposed to touch a son like that, was she? All his life, he's been told it was wrong and it was bad and it was sick, disgusting, dirty and a hundred other ugly words. What did that make him? Did it make him wrong and bad and disgusting? Did those words apply to the violator alone, or to the victim as well?
The pain, still as fresh as the day it'd happened, bubbled up inside him, burning his heart and making it wrench and twist in its death throes. She wasn't supposed to do that. She was his mother, or had been, and she wasn't supposed to do that, to touch him like that, to do that to him against his will. She was his mother and it was okay for her to do that with grown-up men, like the ones she'd brought home, but not to him. Never to him.
Sex. The thought of it repulsed him, made him sick, made him want to cry, want to bash his head against a wall to escape the thoughts that always followed the word. Seeing the others do stuff with their girlfriends made him queasy, light-headed and dizzy. He always felt like he was going to faint. Sometimes, he wished he would, just to escape the sights and sounds.
She'd done this to him and he didn't think he'd ever get away from it. That day had changed his life - he'd never seen her again. And despite what she'd done, he could remember spending long nights with tears on his cheeks, wishing for the mother he'd known before then. The sweet, caring mother who hugged him gently when he was scared or hurt. The one who smiled and gave him candy when he did something right. The one who held his hand when he was too scared to do anything at all. The one who read him bed-time stories. But she was gone, dead to him and he was alone, without a friend in this cold, empty place.
And he'd dreamt about it - and he still did - and he woke screaming, sweating, crying, vainly trying to escape the prying hands that terrorized him from the corners of his mind. He'd closed off the world, rarely speaking, keeping to himself. He'd loved her and she'd hurt him and broke him and left him alone. What good was friendship if all it did was hurt him? What good was love if it was only going to break him? And yet...
He wanted to be told that it was okay and that he wasn't a freak because this had happened. It wouldn't happen, it couldn't happen because it wasn't true. It wasn't okay and he was a freak. He blamed himself - it was all his fault that she'd done that to him. Maybe if he hadn't cried so much, maybe if he whadn't been such a scaredy-cat, hadn't messed up so much. Maybe then she wouldn't have done it. But he'd been all those things and she'd done it and it was all his fault.
A part of him deep down knew that it wasn't really his fault but hers. But she was his mother and somehow, he couldn't blame her and he'd buried the truth with lies. It was his fault people called him a freak. And he was. He couldn't bring himself to look at girls like the others did. He was afraid of them, as if he got too close, they'd hurt him again.
And now this. People stared out him, stepped out of his way, avoided him, whispered vile things about him to each other. "Fag," they said. They called him names. A few kids, the ones who weren't afraid of catching this so-called disease of his, had beat him up a couple of times. He remembered how dirt tasted - vile and dusty in his mouth and nose as they shoved his face into the ground. He remembered their jeers and the bruises their kicks and punches had left on him. He remembered spitting dirt and blood and picking gravel out of soon-to-be infected cuts. This was what he deserved. Why couldn't he just be normal? Why couldn't he just fit in with everyone else? He didn't belong here anymore, just like he didn't belong any where else.
Where would he go? There was no where he knew of, no one he knew of. All he knew had been this life. Now, even the gang avoided him like the plague. They wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't go near him. He felt like curling up and dying. He doubted anyone would notice, let alone care.
Slowly, he turned away from the street, preparing to head back up to the place he called "home". Life really wasn't so bad. He had a place to go and spend the long nights, staring up at the cracked ceiling until he felt that his eyes would fall out of their sockets. There was food in the cupboard, he supposed, though he hadn't checked in a while. He really didn't feel like eating anymore. Best of all, he could lock the door and shut the blinds. He could lie down and sob himself silly and complain to his pillow, the ever-patient listener to his pettiness. He could take the knife to his skin and part it gently, make blood ooze out of his body, remind himself that he was still alive, that this was real. He really shouldn't be complaining. There were people who didn't have these luxuries.
Still, he couldn't help but feel alone. He couldn't help but be confused. His shoes clicked on the grimy, dusty stairs. The hot air shimmered in the city behind him. He slid into the place, the rathole he called "home", shutting the door behind him. He faced the room where another night of tears and loneliness awaited him.
/I wanna change this.../
He swept a pile of clothes out of the way with his foot. "There. I changed something."
//Not what you meant.//
He looked disappointedly at the 'change', choking back a sob. /What am I?/
//Alone.//
/I don't wanna be alone./
//Then change it.//
/How?/
//Tell somebody.//
He whimpered. /Nobody would listen to me.../
But as he thought it, his gaze wandered to the phone. There was one person above all others he really wanted to call, to talk to. //So call him.//
He acted on that before he could think it through and before he'd realized what he was doing, he had the reciever in his hand and had dialed the number. /What am I doing?/
The phone was ringing. He swallowed. /I should just hang up./
Too late. There was a click and the voice he'd been dying to hear echoed through his ears. "Hello?"
He swallowed and managed to squeak, "Yamagata?"
The voice on the other end of the line was annoyed. "Yes?"
Kai swallowed and decided that just babbling was better than saying nothing. "Yamagata, it's me, Kai and-"
Click. The line went dead. Slowly, Kai put the reciever back on the cradle. He was alone.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
[A/N: Soooooo....whaddya think? R&R and let me know what you think.]