Help Me Escape From My Memories
I walked into his apartment and about gasped. The place was spic
and span. Not what I expected of him to say the least. He walked in
behind me, shaking the water from his umbrella. His usual grin was there,
but the sad eyes were too.
"Wow, how do you keep this place so clean?" I asked him. He just
grinned.
"Years of habit," he replied. His voice wasn't as ardent as when
I first met him and it concerned me. Anymore he looked ready to cry, he
never did though.
We never talked about the war. I had brought it up once, and he
had flew into a rage. In strained words he had told me, "the war is over,
there is no use talking about it." Then he had stalked off to his room
and I didn't see him till the next morning.
I walked in his living room and was amazed at the art. He had
pictures all over the walls, and the furniture was beautiful. Also
something I hadn't expected of him.
He noticed me looking at a picture. It was one of a small girl.
She was folded up in a chair. She seemed to look straight at you and
there was a tear in her eye.
"That one was from the American colony. I was wandering by an
art gallery when I saw it. It struck me in a way so I bought it," he
said, almost sadly.
As he walked around the room he explained each painting to me
and everyone seemed to hold some deeper meaning to him. It was as if
they were real to him. Looking at him, you could see that he could feel
the artists emotions and they radiated outward from him. I was soon
caught up in his gusto.
We sat down in the chairs and he pointed at the last picture. I
hadn't noticed it before. It was covering the top of a side table, a
sheet of glass over it, to connect it to the top of the table. This one
wasn't like the others though. It was mostly made of stick figures and
there were a few figures that a person could tell a grown-up had drawn.
It appeared that it was a picture of a rather large family. It was
crumpled, like it had been folded many a time in a haphazard way. And
it was slightly dirty with yellow aging.
For this picture he offered no explanation though. He only got
an extreme look of greif that was quickly washed away with his usual
smile. I considered asking him what it was of, but one look in his eyes
and I knew better.
"So where have you been the last year, I looked for you," he
asked, and I knew he was trying to change the subject. But I decided
to answer him, I'm not one to dig for answers.
"After I was released from the hospital I went back to my family's
land on Earth. I saw my mother for the first time in five years. It
was wonderful," I answered.
"That sounds wonderful. Was she glad to see you?"
"She was overjoyed, I hadn't expected it. I had left against
her will and I thought she would hate me. But she rushed out and hugged
me and..." I broke off, the emotions that I thought I hadn't finished
with were starting to come out. I really had expected her to hate me,
but she didn't. I can't figure out why she forgave me so easily.
He smiled at me, understanding my sudden rush of emotions. We
talked for a long time that night. Then he showed me to the guest room.
I quickly fell asleep. Around midnight I woke up. There was no noise,
but something just didn't feel right.
I walked to the kitchen and saw him slumped over the table. The
table had tiny wet spots on it, a single tear jumped down to join them.
I had never seen him cry.
To be continued....
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or any of its characters.
Well, what do you think? The next chapter I may even tell you who it is
and what the picture means. Until then, you'll have to be kept waiting
because I didn't have enough time to put it in here. So I'm making it
a series. Hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for reading.
I walked into his apartment and about gasped. The place was spic
and span. Not what I expected of him to say the least. He walked in
behind me, shaking the water from his umbrella. His usual grin was there,
but the sad eyes were too.
"Wow, how do you keep this place so clean?" I asked him. He just
grinned.
"Years of habit," he replied. His voice wasn't as ardent as when
I first met him and it concerned me. Anymore he looked ready to cry, he
never did though.
We never talked about the war. I had brought it up once, and he
had flew into a rage. In strained words he had told me, "the war is over,
there is no use talking about it." Then he had stalked off to his room
and I didn't see him till the next morning.
I walked in his living room and was amazed at the art. He had
pictures all over the walls, and the furniture was beautiful. Also
something I hadn't expected of him.
He noticed me looking at a picture. It was one of a small girl.
She was folded up in a chair. She seemed to look straight at you and
there was a tear in her eye.
"That one was from the American colony. I was wandering by an
art gallery when I saw it. It struck me in a way so I bought it," he
said, almost sadly.
As he walked around the room he explained each painting to me
and everyone seemed to hold some deeper meaning to him. It was as if
they were real to him. Looking at him, you could see that he could feel
the artists emotions and they radiated outward from him. I was soon
caught up in his gusto.
We sat down in the chairs and he pointed at the last picture. I
hadn't noticed it before. It was covering the top of a side table, a
sheet of glass over it, to connect it to the top of the table. This one
wasn't like the others though. It was mostly made of stick figures and
there were a few figures that a person could tell a grown-up had drawn.
It appeared that it was a picture of a rather large family. It was
crumpled, like it had been folded many a time in a haphazard way. And
it was slightly dirty with yellow aging.
For this picture he offered no explanation though. He only got
an extreme look of greif that was quickly washed away with his usual
smile. I considered asking him what it was of, but one look in his eyes
and I knew better.
"So where have you been the last year, I looked for you," he
asked, and I knew he was trying to change the subject. But I decided
to answer him, I'm not one to dig for answers.
"After I was released from the hospital I went back to my family's
land on Earth. I saw my mother for the first time in five years. It
was wonderful," I answered.
"That sounds wonderful. Was she glad to see you?"
"She was overjoyed, I hadn't expected it. I had left against
her will and I thought she would hate me. But she rushed out and hugged
me and..." I broke off, the emotions that I thought I hadn't finished
with were starting to come out. I really had expected her to hate me,
but she didn't. I can't figure out why she forgave me so easily.
He smiled at me, understanding my sudden rush of emotions. We
talked for a long time that night. Then he showed me to the guest room.
I quickly fell asleep. Around midnight I woke up. There was no noise,
but something just didn't feel right.
I walked to the kitchen and saw him slumped over the table. The
table had tiny wet spots on it, a single tear jumped down to join them.
I had never seen him cry.
To be continued....
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or any of its characters.
Well, what do you think? The next chapter I may even tell you who it is
and what the picture means. Until then, you'll have to be kept waiting
because I didn't have enough time to put it in here. So I'm making it
a series. Hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for reading.