-------------------------------------------
Silver Linings
-------------------------------------------
[Your words to me just a whisper
Your face's so unclear
I try to pay attention
Your words just disappear]
"What have I done?"
My mouth was dry. My hands, burning with acid residue from the thick, crimson liquid profusely escaping my victim's wound. My eyes could no longer visualize properly as my body became a guinea pig for the newfound symptom of numbness. I could do no more than stare up into the intense green eyes of the man I had just murdered and shake from the guilt that overflowed and leaked through my conscience. The very conscience, which caused my now evaporating spirit to crumble like so many times in the past.
Reno, the red headed man, who I considered my savior during the turbulent years of my childhood, fell to the side and away from my quivering body with a sickly thud. My mind couldn't, or just wouldn't, process the fact that I had killed him. I had actually held a gun to his head and pulled the trigger without recollection of my actions. The food within my stomach churned so bitterly at that very thought, I could no longer hold back the urge to vomit any longer.
My head turned to the side as an explosion of bile escaped my mouth and fell onto the wooden floor besides me. The room spun as the breath, which caused me to function, was caught in my tightened throat. Everything seemed so unbelievably surreal that I couldn't even begin to make out what was real anymore. The environment, this apartment, my deceased mentor. I even began to think that if I twisted my neck to the side, Reno would no longer be there. He would be gone, just apart of the vapor which filled my dementedly unstable subconscience. But, unfortunately, I didn't have the courage within me to test that theory.
I wiped my soiled mouth as I summoned enough strength within me to sit up. I was a murderer. I actually killed someone in cold blood without first contemplating the consequences. What was I going to do? I didn't want to spend the rest of my life in prison being the bitch of some lesbian named Bertha. No, I wanted so much more for myself. How could I let my thirst for vengeance overtake the yearning for a life of freedom? I couldn't understand that concept, but then again, even if I possibly could, I didn't think I wanted to.
"Oh God, what am I gonna do," I whispered to no one in particular as I placed my shaking hands on my forehead. As my fingers touched hot skin, I felt warm, thick beaded moisture on my face and the body, which I thought I had so much control over, quivered in fear. This was real. This was actually reality at its finest and most memorable moment.
I pulled my hand away from my forehead and saw nothing but crimson droplets of blood, running it's course down my palm and onto my wrist viciously. I was stained with another's blood and that thought made me jump up in agony and roughly wipe my dirtily corrupted hands on my jeans. I cried out angrily as I realized the liquid wasn't completely disappearing, but leaving behind a trail of magenta as a constant reminder.
"I'm sorry," I whispered while placing my cold hands over my face desperately and feeling hot tears of guilt materializing in my eyes. They burned with a certain sensation that seemed to leave a painful after effect. I hated the bloody bastard, but he didn't deserve this. Nobody did, even if it did save people a lot of future strife. I did want to kill Reno in a way, I would be lying if I said I didn't, but now, as I stand here in the middle of this silent household, I wished I hadn't even come here in the first place.
I turned my head to the side and finally saw the man I had maliciously taken the life of. I felt as though a pitchfork was stabbing me repeatedly in the stomach while tears of affliction continued to pour from my fluttering eyes. He was young and that thought was what made the guilt within me increase to disproportional heights. I was furious when Yuffie was taken, so young and vibrant. What a hypocrite I was, in result taking a man who was just a little older than she.
The air around me seemed to thin as my head began to spin and float up towards the roof above. I couldn't take the surroundings any more so my legs, as weak as a wobbling bowl of Jell-O cubes, quickly moved themselves to the front door. I placed my hand on the warm doorknob and looked back.
"Reno.....I'm sorry that you had to suffer the consequences for your actions, but I won't stand here and say you didn't deserve it. Because you did. You killed the beloved and now, you're going to have to deal with the consequences."
With that said, I twisted the doorknob, opened the door, and exited back into the reality I had known and grown to appreciate. It was chillier than it had been before, but nothing would beat the abnormal arctic temperatures of the apartment I had just been into. Nothing.
-------------------------------------------
[Cuz it's always raining in my head
forget all the things I should have said]
He placed the only pair of jeans that could possibly fit into the compact duffel bag while gathering together the other scarce supplies he felt a necessity to carry. This was it, he was actually going to leave Nibelheim. This wasn't some juvenile mission to find himself for a while and then come running back into the arms of familiarity. No, the world was waiting for another victim to swallow into its vast obscene abyss of destruction and loneliness and the fair haired teenager was willing to be it's permanent resident. Cloud Strife was going to leave, and this time, it was for good.
Shoving the last batch of clothing articles into his escape bag, Cloud zipped it closed and proceeded to drop it to the floor below him. This very moment seemed so very surreal to him. It was almost as though his body was standing completely still in the confines of reality while his mind was floating lifelessly through an alternate universe where his actual body could never reach. He still couldn't process the fact that this was the last time he was ever going to step into this very room and merely dwell in its glory.
Sighing, Cloud plopped down on his bed and folded his arms across his chest. This house held so many memories of his father. The fact that the essence of Mr. Strife still lingered through these walls kept Cloud in constant position. It was basically the only reason why he stayed as long as he had. Not for his mother. Not for Aeris. Not for his friends. But to hold on to whatever memory he had of his deceased father. Just the realization of basking in this spirit seemed to make the cerulean eyed boy's life so much easier.
He stared up at the ceiling while placing one of his crossed arms behind his neck. What would happen to Tifa if he decided to leave? He would never know what could have been between them if he left her behind. Never again looking into the depths of her fiery eyes as though he were knocking on heaven's door. Never kissing the portly lips which seemed to overflow with an intense honey-like disposition. She would be gone, like the passing sand through an hourglass. And there, standing completely frozen in the obsolete moment, Cloud would be left with nothing but regret.
Closing his eyes, Cloud moaned into the invisible air around him and turned on his side. He thought it was so very easy. Pack his things and just leave with the money he had earned from working extensively. He had waited so long for this very moment, which had driven him to the edge of escape, but now that he had achieved it, nostalgia took over his precise planning technique and absolutely obliterated everything. Thoughts of the people Cloud would leave behind and the opportunities he would never be able to claim filled his mentality to the point where he questioned his life's choices.
Groaning once again, Cloud sat up and ran his hands over his spiked golden strands. It was humanity's weakness. To live a life where you allow destiny to take a drastic turn and lead you in the opposite direction of where you actually were set to go. It's the unexpected result of an emotional attack. Whether it be from regret or fear of change, a minor vibration of doubt could change the course of your well-planned out future in a heartbeat.
"Cloud, sweetheart, are you in there?"
"I'm busy," Cloud shouted back after being shaken out of his conflicting thoughts from his mother's remorsefully sounding voice.
"Please. I really need to speak with you," Mrs. Strife begged, hoping that her son would let her in to apologize for her misdeeds. She loved Cloud so much and in all actuality, no matter how many times they fought, her love grew stronger and stronger each and every day she breathed.
There was a long pause of silence before Cloud gave permission for his mother to enter. Still remaining seated on his bed, the silent teen watched his parent enter into close proximity of him. She shone with distaste and her face was filled with utterly guilt infested solemn, almost as though she was thinking of something which could possibly make the situation the two were in better. Seeing the woman who gave him life in such a state caused him to equally shine with a guilty relegation.
"What is it?" Cloud asked more harshly than he had intended as his eyes burned with curiosity and possible resentment of the opposer's thoughts. It was not exactly hatred for his mother that pierced incessantly within his being, but bitter feelings that this woman, who had given birth and was the reason for his mere existence, would most likely be the reason for the reconsideration of his life's choices.
Recoiling slightly from her son's acidic commentary, Mrs. Strife almost immediately recovered and proceeded to move herself from her previous location at the doorway to Cloud's isolated dresser. She bowed her head down as her heart raced with the obvious intensity of the moment. The nerves within her pulsated so violently, it seemed as though they were only moments away from exploding in absolute anticipation.
"Cloud," the blonde haired woman began, sighing softly while playing with her thumbs nervously, "I wanted to apologize for my childish behavior downstairs. It was uncalled for. And you were right when you said I was acting like a selfish child. I'm so sorry, baby, I really am. I just. I just miss your father so much. I miss...being loved."
He didn't say anything. He 'couldn't' say anything from fear of losing control of the cool he had spent years and years perfecting composure of. All Cloud did was sit, Indian-style on his childhood bed, silently and nod dumbly and almost senilely.
"Aren't you going to say something? Please. Say anything," Mrs. Strife begged, sliding her gaze from down at her hands to the boy in front of her.
"I have nothing to say, but......good-bye," Cloud replied firmly, a certain strength within him crumbling down along with his security. Looking up from his watchful glance of the bed, he met his mother's confused, yet pained eyes. Tears almost seemed to beg to be set free from their captivity as the family sat in brief contemplation of the occasion.
"What do you mean, good-bye?"
The question was so easy. All Cloud had to do was say he was leaving for good and the conversation would be over. Permanently. But something inside the youth told him differently. It was almost as though the ESP of his soul was telling him nothing but storms would torture his voyage if he revealed to his mother the pure yearning he felt to leave Nibelheim. No, Cloud couldn't tell his mother in layman's terms because by doing so, he would be responsible for murdering his mother's hopes of rekindling a bond with her 'estranged' son.
"I just have to leave for a couple months. Be on my own and figure some things out for myself," Cloud explained, feeling tiny debris of his heart bleeding to oblivion with guilt as the vapor which would linger forever in the confines of his chest and constantly remind him of the sin he would forever be in retribution for.
"Oh my God," she whispered with a light of realization shining in her sky-pigmented orbs, "you're not coming back, are you?"
Cloud didn't say another word, but the expression on his face proved his mother's theory correctly stated. The blonde unfolded his legs, from the previous position he was seated in, and swung himself off the comfortably suitable bed he had grown up sleeping in. A bed, which the teenager would sleep in, nevermore.
"Cloud, no, sweetie! No! Please, don't leave me!"
Mrs. Strife hoisted herself forward and fell to her knees at her son's feet. Tears streamed from her eyes and onto her perfectly complexioned cheeks as her arms wrapped themselves tightly around his legs. She had never, in all her years of living, acted this immature, but at this moment, it proved extremely necessary. Cloud was all she had left in this harsh, inhumane world. Without him to care and love her, she would surely dissolve into nothingness.
"Mother! Get off the floor and away from me," he shouted with angry annoyance while reaching down and desperately trying to pry the anxious arms away from his legs, "you're giving a new definition to the word immature, so get up and at least do yourself the favor of grasping onto whatever extremely little dignity you have left!"
"No! No, please don't leave me. I need you. I need you, sweetheart, and I love you so much. How can you turn your back on someone who loves you with her whole heart and soul, huh? How can you brush off your own mother?"
"You see what I mean? This is exactly what I hate about you! You act like I don't exist whenever I'm actually here and when you see I'm slipping away from you, you grab onto me with an iron grip! It isn't going to work this time, Mom! It won't work," Cloud exclaimed loudly, pushing his mother backwards and away from his once captive legs.
"Please," Cloud's mother murmured pathetically as she sat on the carpeted floor with a pleading expression on her face, "I can change. I can change for you. I can be the mother you actually want."
Cloud shook his head and froze for a moment in contemplation. He hated to see her in such a childish state of mind, but his mother's manipulative attempts to keep him here would not work. He would be damned if this woman kept him here for the remainder of his life. Damned!
"I don't want you to change. I want you to get up, leave my room, and go about your life as if nothing has happened."
"Nothing has happened," Mrs. Strife screamed angrily, "My only son is leaving me and you expect me to go about as if nothing as happened! Damn you, Cloud Strife! I will not let you leave! I forbid it!"
"Take a look at me, mother," Cloud shrieked back in defense while pointing at himself as living, breathing proof of the sudden realization, "I'm not a child anymore! I'm eighteen years old and of age to make my own decisions. You can't forbid any of my ideas. So, get up off the floor and say good-bye to me."
The crumbling woman cried softly while placing her face into her quivering hands. She could not speak or even look up and face her belligerent opponent. It was over. Mrs. Strife was loosing her only child and there was nothing on earth which would prevent that dreadful action from actually happening.
Cloud removed his watch over the grieving persona on the floor and moved back to pick up the heavy load of belongings from the floor. Hoisting it over his shoulder, he stopped in front of his mother and shook his head, "I did and still do love you. More than words could ever say. Even, as a child, when I knew you were out parading the town like a whore, I still loved you. You're my mother and no matter what ill-fated sins you commit, that fact will always pose true."
With that said, the blonde protagonist walked forward, exited the incompetently sullen room, and made his way to the outside world, as his mother, weak and weary, rolled herself up into a small ball and cried herself to sleep over the loss of her only child.
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[So I speak to you in riddles
cuz my words get in my way
I smoke the whole thing to my head
and feel it wash away]
She ran through town with a tidal wave of burning sensations washing over her entire being. She couldn't help but wonder if these events were only just a mere nightmare. A nightmare which would only lead her to the comfort of her own bed. But she knew better, for she was not naive. The surfacing of the sky and surroundings were just too real to be a dream. Tifa Lockheart was a murderer and she would have to live with that title for the rest of her existence.
Rushing through the townspeople, some giving her questioningly odd expressions, Tifa felt her legs begin to give out from underneath her. She would not falter. She was too close to the warmth and security of her own home to fall down and be persecuted by these poor excuses for human beings.
No, Tifa would not give these people the satisfaction of seeing her in an extremely vulnerable state of being. It would be too easy for them to attack her.
'I wonder why there's so many people in this part of town. Nobody ever comes....'
Tifa stopped abruptly as her thoughts halted just as quickly as her physical movements. Sucking in the only breath she could to prevent herself from falling unconscience, the young girl's crimson eyes beheld the Kisargi household and the state of utter pandemonia which was encircling it.
Mr. Kisargi was on the side with the police officers, most likely telling them his side of the story, tears streaming down his face as Yuffie's fragile body was being carried out of the house in the smaller than average body bag by two very gruff looking men. Tifa's stomach churned once again as tears re-materialized themselves in her large, oval eyes. As her mind headed in all different directions, she noticed many whispering gossip stories from the inconsiderate townspeople, but oddly enough, only one story stood out above all.
"The girl was clearly on the drugs. I mean her mother walked out on her, I heard her father beat her, and above all little Yuffie was being mentored by that trash, Tifa Lockheart. Tifa's company alone must have caused this."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean," Tifa asked harshly, snapping her attention from the retreating morticians to the two plump women standing so close to the angry teenager's side, they could practically be on top of her.
The two shorter women gave Tifa a nonchalantly bitter side glance while walking away from the crowd, their noses held unnaturally high in the air. Rolling her eyes at the two pompous individuals, Tifa murmured inaudibly low, "Bitch."
"What are you doing here?"
Looking over, Tifa noticed a couple of Yuffie's old friends approaching her in a very angry fashion. If you gave them pitchforks, fireplace pokers, and the scarce bonfires of massive proportions ignited behind them, they could be seriously be up for a canonization for the title of angry mob. But no matter how intimidating the rambunctious crowd looked, Tifa remained unmoved and still noticeably taller. True, some of the individuals confronting the innocent teenager were around the same age of their proposed victim, but they were also more verbose than physical.
"You have some nerve coming here," one of the younger girls spat out viciously, her emerald eyes burning with hatred and a sense of vengeance staining the beauty which could have laid beneath the shadows.
"Oh, yeah, and why's that?" Tifa asked in bored defensiveness, crossing her arms over her chest and eyeing the teenagers who practically stood begging for a fight, suspiciously.
"I'll tell you why, Teef. You killed Yuffie. You must be taking real pleasure in watching her being taken out of her house like that. You weren't even her friend, just someone to pass your sickly obsessions on to. I mean, one day you'll die, right? And then who will live the legacy of Tifa the drug addict Lockheart? Yuffie was your perfect target. Young, naive, lost her mother. Heh, sounds kind of familiar, doesn't it?"
"Tasha, if you want to walk out of here with both legs firmly intact I suggest you shut your mouth," Tifa threatened, beginning to slightly advance on her despicable villain with shimmering, tear infested eyes.
"Oh, I'm so petrified, Tifa," Tasha began, not stumbling back once at the brunette's grave promises, but on the contrary, also advancing forward so her own stormy gray eyes met fiery crimson ones,
"So tell me, does it feel good to be a murderer? A murderer to a defenseless girl who could have been someone. Did it feel good to crush Yuffie's chances? Chances you would have never, in this lifetime, been able to have. You're not even human, Tifa, so what the fuck are you doing here on Earth? She would have been so much better off, no, correction, we would 'all' be so much better off if you were never born!"
Tifa eyes burned with moisture of the agony her soul underwent. Her heart skipped beats as it rampaged itself against the fragile ribs which concealed the vital organ. She wasn't angry at Tasha's accusations, and the embarrassment she experienced, not at all, for if it were another situation, the young and abused would have shrugged it off. But the anger Tifa felt went so much deeper than the attack of her pride and reputation. It went to the sole core of her being. The words being said to her caused Tifa to seriously place into question whether or not she was the reason for Yuffie's untimely death.
Backing away, with tears falling down her soiled cheeks, Tifa turned around and began walking away from the scene. As she ran her hand through her disheveled hair, small, barely recognizable sobs escaped her parted lips. Her body's sharp pains dulled from the extensively morbid dissatisfaction her heart had no choice but to intake. All eyes, Tifa had noticed, were placed on her retreating form. Eyes, which undoubtedly held the same bitter distaste Tasha's own orbs had proved evident.
"Yeah, Tifa, run back to your own little shit hole of an internal prison. It's where you belong!"
Her pace quickened from a sauntering walk to a hastened jog. The tears, which became a sudden infatuation for her eyes to produce, blinded her to the extent of the prevention of any possibility of distinguishing which objects were what. She didn't care though, as long as it got her away from the torment that, in fact, caused her heart to bleed buckets.
Running through the threshold of her home, Tifa opened the Victorian styled door and entered into the place she called her safe haven or in other words, the sanctuary where nobody would ever be disgraced by her company. Even though she denied admitting to the pleasure she felt whenever she was within these walls, Tifa, inside, knew she soared and swam in inclination of this very household.
Slamming the door shut, Tifa's back softly hit its ornate components and slid down towards to wooden floor. Placing her slovenly face into blood-dried hands, she desperately cried tears of remorse and benevolence into them. It wasn't possible to feel this helpless, especially when the person experiencing this emotional breakdown was quite possibly the strongest individual you will ever meet.
"Tifa? Tifa, is that you?"
Tifa's face shot up from her palms and focused in on her father's worried face. Not being able to speak, Mr. Lockheart's daughter scurried up from her defeated position by the door and into her father's awaiting arms. It was a definite shock to the man, but he would not pull back. This moment was what he had waited for since the moment his wife had grown fatally ill. The moment where father and daughter would rekindle their relationship without reparation for their actions. And he would first cut off his own fingers before allowing any outside influences to destroy this instant trip into pure bliss.
Tifa held onto Mr. Lockheart's shoulders as her face scrunched up into one of distaste and sobs escaped her mouth openly. Tifa's father held onto his only child's shivering body, rubbing her back and whispering comforting words into her ear. His heart froze at seeing her so broken but it also leapt for undeniable joy at actually having an opportunity to hold her in his arms. He couldn't remember the last time he had hugged Tifa like this, for she wouldn't even let him near her to give some kind of emotional aid at the funeral. Mr. Lockheart couldn't recall this, but he didn't care. The war between father and daughter was over, and now, they could live their lives as any family would.
"Listen, I have to go," a woman, who appeared to be in her early thirties explained while walking towards the coat rack and rudely disturbing the Kodak moment which was occurring, "because I can obviously see the baby and I are not very important to you."
Tifa's body froze abnormally still as her sobbing ceased and her arms unwrapped themselves from the older man's shoulder. Pushing away slowly, ruby eyes drifted from the arrogant stranger back to Mr. Lockheart disgustedly. Shaking her head, the disbelieving girl continued to move backwards while whispering, "No. No. No."
"Tifa, sweetheart, I can explain," Mr. Lockheart began, moving forward to rewrap his arms around his practically destroyed child, but sadly, it proved futile. Tifa easily sidestepped his attempt and continued to shake her head. He wanted her to say something. To scream. To tell him what a bastard he was, but she didn't say a word and that was far worse than any degrading comment that could have been produced by his teenage daughter.
"No," Tifa shouted once again while flailing her arms around at her father's desperate attempts at reconciliation : "Leave me alone!"
Allowing more tears to fall, Tifa pushed her father back, ran past him, and up the stairs, not stopping once until she reached her room to slam the door. Screaming, the broken girl swung her arms and knocked over every material which laid neatly on her desk. Falling to the floor, which was now the proper home of shattered glass, Tifa could no longer hold on to her sanity. She could no longer keep herself under control. The animal-like anger erupted as viciously as a volcano of fury, tears proving to be the clear substitution of magma.
With anger as her fuel, Tifa lifted herself up from her pathetic stance and slowly made her way to the desolate closet. Opening it's door, she reached inside and pulled out a practical sized suitcase and tossed it onto the floor behind her. Not stopping there, Tifa also grabbed as many clothing articles off the hangers and threw it back onto the suitcase. It didn't matter what a hideous mess she was making. All that mattered was getting as many materials as she could into her hands and packing it into that very suitcase lying, at the moment, disfigured on the ground.
The woods are dark, lovely, deep
Tifa shoved a hand full of T-shirts into the suitcase once she kneeled on the floor. Reaching over, she also grabbed a pair of old jeans which were laying by her bedside, most likely, unclean. It didn't matter how unorganized the packing was done or what articles of clothing were clean or not. She had to leave by nightfall. That was the only mission that actually counted as important.
but I have promises to keep
Standing up once again, Tifa jogged over to the mass destruction of objects which previously resided on her desktop. Rummaging through the insignificant debris, she found the journal and book she had wanted to excavate from the wreckage. Picking it up, she moved back towards the suitcase and dropped both books into its crowded environment without once reconsidering the action.
And miles to go before I sleep
Contemplating whether all necessities were packed, a glint of a picture frame caught the thoughtful girl's eye. Almost, as though under hypnosis, Tifa walked towards her bedside and picked the object of her attention up swiftly. It was an old photograph of her mother before Tifa was ever even conceived. She was wearing a long, beautifully flattering yellow sundress. Her hair, the color of a silently perched raven, hung over her shoulders and cascaded down her smooth, bare arms as her ruby eyes shone with the equal brilliance of the smile on her face. What caught everyone's eye, as they looked at the photograph, was not only the beautiful woman, but the expensive shimmering pendant, which hung from the silver chain around Mrs. Lockheart's long, elegant neck. It was a slightly ornate creation with crystal center and a short entwining bottom piece.
Tifa moved her hand up towards her own neck, grabbed onto a silver chain, and pulled it up, revealing the same pendant which was located in the picture. Her eyes scrutinized the charm as her fingers tightened themselves around its complicated chiseled silver material. Mrs. Lockheart had given her daughter the necklace the moment before she died and ever since then, Tifa had never taken the pendant off.
Sighing, she placed the necklace back in its secure position within her shirt before returning back with the picture frame in hand. Placing the frame gently into the case, Tifa then zipped it closed, confining all her most valuables into one tight space. It was time to leave and unfortunately the leave would be quick for there was no one to say good-bye to.
'Cloud.'
Tifa's thoughts drifted off to the blonde she had grown extremely fond of. Would he care that she would leave for good? Of course he wouldn't. The whole town would be happy. So happy that the minute they all found out Tifa Lockheart had left Nibelheim, a party would be thrown, ironically, in her honor. But still, it would be rude to leave without a proper farewell. He had taken care of her when she had needed him, it was the least she could do in return of his kindness.
So with a destination in mind, the runaway picked up her suitcase without a second's hesitation and moved herself towards the window. Opening it with one swift tug, Tifa tossed the suitcase out the window and leapt onto the sill to toss herself down as well. She looked back, as it had grown a habit for her to do so, and whispered, "Good-bye, father, I know you tried, but you just didn't try hard enough," before jumping from the window to the tree branch below as an escape route to freedom.
And miles to go before I sleep
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Silver Linings
-------------------------------------------
[Your words to me just a whisper
Your face's so unclear
I try to pay attention
Your words just disappear]
"What have I done?"
My mouth was dry. My hands, burning with acid residue from the thick, crimson liquid profusely escaping my victim's wound. My eyes could no longer visualize properly as my body became a guinea pig for the newfound symptom of numbness. I could do no more than stare up into the intense green eyes of the man I had just murdered and shake from the guilt that overflowed and leaked through my conscience. The very conscience, which caused my now evaporating spirit to crumble like so many times in the past.
Reno, the red headed man, who I considered my savior during the turbulent years of my childhood, fell to the side and away from my quivering body with a sickly thud. My mind couldn't, or just wouldn't, process the fact that I had killed him. I had actually held a gun to his head and pulled the trigger without recollection of my actions. The food within my stomach churned so bitterly at that very thought, I could no longer hold back the urge to vomit any longer.
My head turned to the side as an explosion of bile escaped my mouth and fell onto the wooden floor besides me. The room spun as the breath, which caused me to function, was caught in my tightened throat. Everything seemed so unbelievably surreal that I couldn't even begin to make out what was real anymore. The environment, this apartment, my deceased mentor. I even began to think that if I twisted my neck to the side, Reno would no longer be there. He would be gone, just apart of the vapor which filled my dementedly unstable subconscience. But, unfortunately, I didn't have the courage within me to test that theory.
I wiped my soiled mouth as I summoned enough strength within me to sit up. I was a murderer. I actually killed someone in cold blood without first contemplating the consequences. What was I going to do? I didn't want to spend the rest of my life in prison being the bitch of some lesbian named Bertha. No, I wanted so much more for myself. How could I let my thirst for vengeance overtake the yearning for a life of freedom? I couldn't understand that concept, but then again, even if I possibly could, I didn't think I wanted to.
"Oh God, what am I gonna do," I whispered to no one in particular as I placed my shaking hands on my forehead. As my fingers touched hot skin, I felt warm, thick beaded moisture on my face and the body, which I thought I had so much control over, quivered in fear. This was real. This was actually reality at its finest and most memorable moment.
I pulled my hand away from my forehead and saw nothing but crimson droplets of blood, running it's course down my palm and onto my wrist viciously. I was stained with another's blood and that thought made me jump up in agony and roughly wipe my dirtily corrupted hands on my jeans. I cried out angrily as I realized the liquid wasn't completely disappearing, but leaving behind a trail of magenta as a constant reminder.
"I'm sorry," I whispered while placing my cold hands over my face desperately and feeling hot tears of guilt materializing in my eyes. They burned with a certain sensation that seemed to leave a painful after effect. I hated the bloody bastard, but he didn't deserve this. Nobody did, even if it did save people a lot of future strife. I did want to kill Reno in a way, I would be lying if I said I didn't, but now, as I stand here in the middle of this silent household, I wished I hadn't even come here in the first place.
I turned my head to the side and finally saw the man I had maliciously taken the life of. I felt as though a pitchfork was stabbing me repeatedly in the stomach while tears of affliction continued to pour from my fluttering eyes. He was young and that thought was what made the guilt within me increase to disproportional heights. I was furious when Yuffie was taken, so young and vibrant. What a hypocrite I was, in result taking a man who was just a little older than she.
The air around me seemed to thin as my head began to spin and float up towards the roof above. I couldn't take the surroundings any more so my legs, as weak as a wobbling bowl of Jell-O cubes, quickly moved themselves to the front door. I placed my hand on the warm doorknob and looked back.
"Reno.....I'm sorry that you had to suffer the consequences for your actions, but I won't stand here and say you didn't deserve it. Because you did. You killed the beloved and now, you're going to have to deal with the consequences."
With that said, I twisted the doorknob, opened the door, and exited back into the reality I had known and grown to appreciate. It was chillier than it had been before, but nothing would beat the abnormal arctic temperatures of the apartment I had just been into. Nothing.
-------------------------------------------
[Cuz it's always raining in my head
forget all the things I should have said]
He placed the only pair of jeans that could possibly fit into the compact duffel bag while gathering together the other scarce supplies he felt a necessity to carry. This was it, he was actually going to leave Nibelheim. This wasn't some juvenile mission to find himself for a while and then come running back into the arms of familiarity. No, the world was waiting for another victim to swallow into its vast obscene abyss of destruction and loneliness and the fair haired teenager was willing to be it's permanent resident. Cloud Strife was going to leave, and this time, it was for good.
Shoving the last batch of clothing articles into his escape bag, Cloud zipped it closed and proceeded to drop it to the floor below him. This very moment seemed so very surreal to him. It was almost as though his body was standing completely still in the confines of reality while his mind was floating lifelessly through an alternate universe where his actual body could never reach. He still couldn't process the fact that this was the last time he was ever going to step into this very room and merely dwell in its glory.
Sighing, Cloud plopped down on his bed and folded his arms across his chest. This house held so many memories of his father. The fact that the essence of Mr. Strife still lingered through these walls kept Cloud in constant position. It was basically the only reason why he stayed as long as he had. Not for his mother. Not for Aeris. Not for his friends. But to hold on to whatever memory he had of his deceased father. Just the realization of basking in this spirit seemed to make the cerulean eyed boy's life so much easier.
He stared up at the ceiling while placing one of his crossed arms behind his neck. What would happen to Tifa if he decided to leave? He would never know what could have been between them if he left her behind. Never again looking into the depths of her fiery eyes as though he were knocking on heaven's door. Never kissing the portly lips which seemed to overflow with an intense honey-like disposition. She would be gone, like the passing sand through an hourglass. And there, standing completely frozen in the obsolete moment, Cloud would be left with nothing but regret.
Closing his eyes, Cloud moaned into the invisible air around him and turned on his side. He thought it was so very easy. Pack his things and just leave with the money he had earned from working extensively. He had waited so long for this very moment, which had driven him to the edge of escape, but now that he had achieved it, nostalgia took over his precise planning technique and absolutely obliterated everything. Thoughts of the people Cloud would leave behind and the opportunities he would never be able to claim filled his mentality to the point where he questioned his life's choices.
Groaning once again, Cloud sat up and ran his hands over his spiked golden strands. It was humanity's weakness. To live a life where you allow destiny to take a drastic turn and lead you in the opposite direction of where you actually were set to go. It's the unexpected result of an emotional attack. Whether it be from regret or fear of change, a minor vibration of doubt could change the course of your well-planned out future in a heartbeat.
"Cloud, sweetheart, are you in there?"
"I'm busy," Cloud shouted back after being shaken out of his conflicting thoughts from his mother's remorsefully sounding voice.
"Please. I really need to speak with you," Mrs. Strife begged, hoping that her son would let her in to apologize for her misdeeds. She loved Cloud so much and in all actuality, no matter how many times they fought, her love grew stronger and stronger each and every day she breathed.
There was a long pause of silence before Cloud gave permission for his mother to enter. Still remaining seated on his bed, the silent teen watched his parent enter into close proximity of him. She shone with distaste and her face was filled with utterly guilt infested solemn, almost as though she was thinking of something which could possibly make the situation the two were in better. Seeing the woman who gave him life in such a state caused him to equally shine with a guilty relegation.
"What is it?" Cloud asked more harshly than he had intended as his eyes burned with curiosity and possible resentment of the opposer's thoughts. It was not exactly hatred for his mother that pierced incessantly within his being, but bitter feelings that this woman, who had given birth and was the reason for his mere existence, would most likely be the reason for the reconsideration of his life's choices.
Recoiling slightly from her son's acidic commentary, Mrs. Strife almost immediately recovered and proceeded to move herself from her previous location at the doorway to Cloud's isolated dresser. She bowed her head down as her heart raced with the obvious intensity of the moment. The nerves within her pulsated so violently, it seemed as though they were only moments away from exploding in absolute anticipation.
"Cloud," the blonde haired woman began, sighing softly while playing with her thumbs nervously, "I wanted to apologize for my childish behavior downstairs. It was uncalled for. And you were right when you said I was acting like a selfish child. I'm so sorry, baby, I really am. I just. I just miss your father so much. I miss...being loved."
He didn't say anything. He 'couldn't' say anything from fear of losing control of the cool he had spent years and years perfecting composure of. All Cloud did was sit, Indian-style on his childhood bed, silently and nod dumbly and almost senilely.
"Aren't you going to say something? Please. Say anything," Mrs. Strife begged, sliding her gaze from down at her hands to the boy in front of her.
"I have nothing to say, but......good-bye," Cloud replied firmly, a certain strength within him crumbling down along with his security. Looking up from his watchful glance of the bed, he met his mother's confused, yet pained eyes. Tears almost seemed to beg to be set free from their captivity as the family sat in brief contemplation of the occasion.
"What do you mean, good-bye?"
The question was so easy. All Cloud had to do was say he was leaving for good and the conversation would be over. Permanently. But something inside the youth told him differently. It was almost as though the ESP of his soul was telling him nothing but storms would torture his voyage if he revealed to his mother the pure yearning he felt to leave Nibelheim. No, Cloud couldn't tell his mother in layman's terms because by doing so, he would be responsible for murdering his mother's hopes of rekindling a bond with her 'estranged' son.
"I just have to leave for a couple months. Be on my own and figure some things out for myself," Cloud explained, feeling tiny debris of his heart bleeding to oblivion with guilt as the vapor which would linger forever in the confines of his chest and constantly remind him of the sin he would forever be in retribution for.
"Oh my God," she whispered with a light of realization shining in her sky-pigmented orbs, "you're not coming back, are you?"
Cloud didn't say another word, but the expression on his face proved his mother's theory correctly stated. The blonde unfolded his legs, from the previous position he was seated in, and swung himself off the comfortably suitable bed he had grown up sleeping in. A bed, which the teenager would sleep in, nevermore.
"Cloud, no, sweetie! No! Please, don't leave me!"
Mrs. Strife hoisted herself forward and fell to her knees at her son's feet. Tears streamed from her eyes and onto her perfectly complexioned cheeks as her arms wrapped themselves tightly around his legs. She had never, in all her years of living, acted this immature, but at this moment, it proved extremely necessary. Cloud was all she had left in this harsh, inhumane world. Without him to care and love her, she would surely dissolve into nothingness.
"Mother! Get off the floor and away from me," he shouted with angry annoyance while reaching down and desperately trying to pry the anxious arms away from his legs, "you're giving a new definition to the word immature, so get up and at least do yourself the favor of grasping onto whatever extremely little dignity you have left!"
"No! No, please don't leave me. I need you. I need you, sweetheart, and I love you so much. How can you turn your back on someone who loves you with her whole heart and soul, huh? How can you brush off your own mother?"
"You see what I mean? This is exactly what I hate about you! You act like I don't exist whenever I'm actually here and when you see I'm slipping away from you, you grab onto me with an iron grip! It isn't going to work this time, Mom! It won't work," Cloud exclaimed loudly, pushing his mother backwards and away from his once captive legs.
"Please," Cloud's mother murmured pathetically as she sat on the carpeted floor with a pleading expression on her face, "I can change. I can change for you. I can be the mother you actually want."
Cloud shook his head and froze for a moment in contemplation. He hated to see her in such a childish state of mind, but his mother's manipulative attempts to keep him here would not work. He would be damned if this woman kept him here for the remainder of his life. Damned!
"I don't want you to change. I want you to get up, leave my room, and go about your life as if nothing has happened."
"Nothing has happened," Mrs. Strife screamed angrily, "My only son is leaving me and you expect me to go about as if nothing as happened! Damn you, Cloud Strife! I will not let you leave! I forbid it!"
"Take a look at me, mother," Cloud shrieked back in defense while pointing at himself as living, breathing proof of the sudden realization, "I'm not a child anymore! I'm eighteen years old and of age to make my own decisions. You can't forbid any of my ideas. So, get up off the floor and say good-bye to me."
The crumbling woman cried softly while placing her face into her quivering hands. She could not speak or even look up and face her belligerent opponent. It was over. Mrs. Strife was loosing her only child and there was nothing on earth which would prevent that dreadful action from actually happening.
Cloud removed his watch over the grieving persona on the floor and moved back to pick up the heavy load of belongings from the floor. Hoisting it over his shoulder, he stopped in front of his mother and shook his head, "I did and still do love you. More than words could ever say. Even, as a child, when I knew you were out parading the town like a whore, I still loved you. You're my mother and no matter what ill-fated sins you commit, that fact will always pose true."
With that said, the blonde protagonist walked forward, exited the incompetently sullen room, and made his way to the outside world, as his mother, weak and weary, rolled herself up into a small ball and cried herself to sleep over the loss of her only child.
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[So I speak to you in riddles
cuz my words get in my way
I smoke the whole thing to my head
and feel it wash away]
She ran through town with a tidal wave of burning sensations washing over her entire being. She couldn't help but wonder if these events were only just a mere nightmare. A nightmare which would only lead her to the comfort of her own bed. But she knew better, for she was not naive. The surfacing of the sky and surroundings were just too real to be a dream. Tifa Lockheart was a murderer and she would have to live with that title for the rest of her existence.
Rushing through the townspeople, some giving her questioningly odd expressions, Tifa felt her legs begin to give out from underneath her. She would not falter. She was too close to the warmth and security of her own home to fall down and be persecuted by these poor excuses for human beings.
No, Tifa would not give these people the satisfaction of seeing her in an extremely vulnerable state of being. It would be too easy for them to attack her.
'I wonder why there's so many people in this part of town. Nobody ever comes....'
Tifa stopped abruptly as her thoughts halted just as quickly as her physical movements. Sucking in the only breath she could to prevent herself from falling unconscience, the young girl's crimson eyes beheld the Kisargi household and the state of utter pandemonia which was encircling it.
Mr. Kisargi was on the side with the police officers, most likely telling them his side of the story, tears streaming down his face as Yuffie's fragile body was being carried out of the house in the smaller than average body bag by two very gruff looking men. Tifa's stomach churned once again as tears re-materialized themselves in her large, oval eyes. As her mind headed in all different directions, she noticed many whispering gossip stories from the inconsiderate townspeople, but oddly enough, only one story stood out above all.
"The girl was clearly on the drugs. I mean her mother walked out on her, I heard her father beat her, and above all little Yuffie was being mentored by that trash, Tifa Lockheart. Tifa's company alone must have caused this."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean," Tifa asked harshly, snapping her attention from the retreating morticians to the two plump women standing so close to the angry teenager's side, they could practically be on top of her.
The two shorter women gave Tifa a nonchalantly bitter side glance while walking away from the crowd, their noses held unnaturally high in the air. Rolling her eyes at the two pompous individuals, Tifa murmured inaudibly low, "Bitch."
"What are you doing here?"
Looking over, Tifa noticed a couple of Yuffie's old friends approaching her in a very angry fashion. If you gave them pitchforks, fireplace pokers, and the scarce bonfires of massive proportions ignited behind them, they could be seriously be up for a canonization for the title of angry mob. But no matter how intimidating the rambunctious crowd looked, Tifa remained unmoved and still noticeably taller. True, some of the individuals confronting the innocent teenager were around the same age of their proposed victim, but they were also more verbose than physical.
"You have some nerve coming here," one of the younger girls spat out viciously, her emerald eyes burning with hatred and a sense of vengeance staining the beauty which could have laid beneath the shadows.
"Oh, yeah, and why's that?" Tifa asked in bored defensiveness, crossing her arms over her chest and eyeing the teenagers who practically stood begging for a fight, suspiciously.
"I'll tell you why, Teef. You killed Yuffie. You must be taking real pleasure in watching her being taken out of her house like that. You weren't even her friend, just someone to pass your sickly obsessions on to. I mean, one day you'll die, right? And then who will live the legacy of Tifa the drug addict Lockheart? Yuffie was your perfect target. Young, naive, lost her mother. Heh, sounds kind of familiar, doesn't it?"
"Tasha, if you want to walk out of here with both legs firmly intact I suggest you shut your mouth," Tifa threatened, beginning to slightly advance on her despicable villain with shimmering, tear infested eyes.
"Oh, I'm so petrified, Tifa," Tasha began, not stumbling back once at the brunette's grave promises, but on the contrary, also advancing forward so her own stormy gray eyes met fiery crimson ones,
"So tell me, does it feel good to be a murderer? A murderer to a defenseless girl who could have been someone. Did it feel good to crush Yuffie's chances? Chances you would have never, in this lifetime, been able to have. You're not even human, Tifa, so what the fuck are you doing here on Earth? She would have been so much better off, no, correction, we would 'all' be so much better off if you were never born!"
Tifa eyes burned with moisture of the agony her soul underwent. Her heart skipped beats as it rampaged itself against the fragile ribs which concealed the vital organ. She wasn't angry at Tasha's accusations, and the embarrassment she experienced, not at all, for if it were another situation, the young and abused would have shrugged it off. But the anger Tifa felt went so much deeper than the attack of her pride and reputation. It went to the sole core of her being. The words being said to her caused Tifa to seriously place into question whether or not she was the reason for Yuffie's untimely death.
Backing away, with tears falling down her soiled cheeks, Tifa turned around and began walking away from the scene. As she ran her hand through her disheveled hair, small, barely recognizable sobs escaped her parted lips. Her body's sharp pains dulled from the extensively morbid dissatisfaction her heart had no choice but to intake. All eyes, Tifa had noticed, were placed on her retreating form. Eyes, which undoubtedly held the same bitter distaste Tasha's own orbs had proved evident.
"Yeah, Tifa, run back to your own little shit hole of an internal prison. It's where you belong!"
Her pace quickened from a sauntering walk to a hastened jog. The tears, which became a sudden infatuation for her eyes to produce, blinded her to the extent of the prevention of any possibility of distinguishing which objects were what. She didn't care though, as long as it got her away from the torment that, in fact, caused her heart to bleed buckets.
Running through the threshold of her home, Tifa opened the Victorian styled door and entered into the place she called her safe haven or in other words, the sanctuary where nobody would ever be disgraced by her company. Even though she denied admitting to the pleasure she felt whenever she was within these walls, Tifa, inside, knew she soared and swam in inclination of this very household.
Slamming the door shut, Tifa's back softly hit its ornate components and slid down towards to wooden floor. Placing her slovenly face into blood-dried hands, she desperately cried tears of remorse and benevolence into them. It wasn't possible to feel this helpless, especially when the person experiencing this emotional breakdown was quite possibly the strongest individual you will ever meet.
"Tifa? Tifa, is that you?"
Tifa's face shot up from her palms and focused in on her father's worried face. Not being able to speak, Mr. Lockheart's daughter scurried up from her defeated position by the door and into her father's awaiting arms. It was a definite shock to the man, but he would not pull back. This moment was what he had waited for since the moment his wife had grown fatally ill. The moment where father and daughter would rekindle their relationship without reparation for their actions. And he would first cut off his own fingers before allowing any outside influences to destroy this instant trip into pure bliss.
Tifa held onto Mr. Lockheart's shoulders as her face scrunched up into one of distaste and sobs escaped her mouth openly. Tifa's father held onto his only child's shivering body, rubbing her back and whispering comforting words into her ear. His heart froze at seeing her so broken but it also leapt for undeniable joy at actually having an opportunity to hold her in his arms. He couldn't remember the last time he had hugged Tifa like this, for she wouldn't even let him near her to give some kind of emotional aid at the funeral. Mr. Lockheart couldn't recall this, but he didn't care. The war between father and daughter was over, and now, they could live their lives as any family would.
"Listen, I have to go," a woman, who appeared to be in her early thirties explained while walking towards the coat rack and rudely disturbing the Kodak moment which was occurring, "because I can obviously see the baby and I are not very important to you."
Tifa's body froze abnormally still as her sobbing ceased and her arms unwrapped themselves from the older man's shoulder. Pushing away slowly, ruby eyes drifted from the arrogant stranger back to Mr. Lockheart disgustedly. Shaking her head, the disbelieving girl continued to move backwards while whispering, "No. No. No."
"Tifa, sweetheart, I can explain," Mr. Lockheart began, moving forward to rewrap his arms around his practically destroyed child, but sadly, it proved futile. Tifa easily sidestepped his attempt and continued to shake her head. He wanted her to say something. To scream. To tell him what a bastard he was, but she didn't say a word and that was far worse than any degrading comment that could have been produced by his teenage daughter.
"No," Tifa shouted once again while flailing her arms around at her father's desperate attempts at reconciliation : "Leave me alone!"
Allowing more tears to fall, Tifa pushed her father back, ran past him, and up the stairs, not stopping once until she reached her room to slam the door. Screaming, the broken girl swung her arms and knocked over every material which laid neatly on her desk. Falling to the floor, which was now the proper home of shattered glass, Tifa could no longer hold on to her sanity. She could no longer keep herself under control. The animal-like anger erupted as viciously as a volcano of fury, tears proving to be the clear substitution of magma.
With anger as her fuel, Tifa lifted herself up from her pathetic stance and slowly made her way to the desolate closet. Opening it's door, she reached inside and pulled out a practical sized suitcase and tossed it onto the floor behind her. Not stopping there, Tifa also grabbed as many clothing articles off the hangers and threw it back onto the suitcase. It didn't matter what a hideous mess she was making. All that mattered was getting as many materials as she could into her hands and packing it into that very suitcase lying, at the moment, disfigured on the ground.
The woods are dark, lovely, deep
Tifa shoved a hand full of T-shirts into the suitcase once she kneeled on the floor. Reaching over, she also grabbed a pair of old jeans which were laying by her bedside, most likely, unclean. It didn't matter how unorganized the packing was done or what articles of clothing were clean or not. She had to leave by nightfall. That was the only mission that actually counted as important.
but I have promises to keep
Standing up once again, Tifa jogged over to the mass destruction of objects which previously resided on her desktop. Rummaging through the insignificant debris, she found the journal and book she had wanted to excavate from the wreckage. Picking it up, she moved back towards the suitcase and dropped both books into its crowded environment without once reconsidering the action.
And miles to go before I sleep
Contemplating whether all necessities were packed, a glint of a picture frame caught the thoughtful girl's eye. Almost, as though under hypnosis, Tifa walked towards her bedside and picked the object of her attention up swiftly. It was an old photograph of her mother before Tifa was ever even conceived. She was wearing a long, beautifully flattering yellow sundress. Her hair, the color of a silently perched raven, hung over her shoulders and cascaded down her smooth, bare arms as her ruby eyes shone with the equal brilliance of the smile on her face. What caught everyone's eye, as they looked at the photograph, was not only the beautiful woman, but the expensive shimmering pendant, which hung from the silver chain around Mrs. Lockheart's long, elegant neck. It was a slightly ornate creation with crystal center and a short entwining bottom piece.
Tifa moved her hand up towards her own neck, grabbed onto a silver chain, and pulled it up, revealing the same pendant which was located in the picture. Her eyes scrutinized the charm as her fingers tightened themselves around its complicated chiseled silver material. Mrs. Lockheart had given her daughter the necklace the moment before she died and ever since then, Tifa had never taken the pendant off.
Sighing, she placed the necklace back in its secure position within her shirt before returning back with the picture frame in hand. Placing the frame gently into the case, Tifa then zipped it closed, confining all her most valuables into one tight space. It was time to leave and unfortunately the leave would be quick for there was no one to say good-bye to.
'Cloud.'
Tifa's thoughts drifted off to the blonde she had grown extremely fond of. Would he care that she would leave for good? Of course he wouldn't. The whole town would be happy. So happy that the minute they all found out Tifa Lockheart had left Nibelheim, a party would be thrown, ironically, in her honor. But still, it would be rude to leave without a proper farewell. He had taken care of her when she had needed him, it was the least she could do in return of his kindness.
So with a destination in mind, the runaway picked up her suitcase without a second's hesitation and moved herself towards the window. Opening it with one swift tug, Tifa tossed the suitcase out the window and leapt onto the sill to toss herself down as well. She looked back, as it had grown a habit for her to do so, and whispered, "Good-bye, father, I know you tried, but you just didn't try hard enough," before jumping from the window to the tree branch below as an escape route to freedom.
And miles to go before I sleep
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