Disclaimer: Not mine and never will be.
Author's notes: I was having a discussion with my brother the other day about Digimon characters. When Mimi came up he said that he didn't like her and thought that she was just empty-headed. I disagreed completely. While pleading my case, I decided that she really needs to be shown in a different light and that I should write a short little story about her. So here it is. Probably needs some editing and such. I would appreciate some constructive criticism, keyword: constructive.
But You Can't Really Know
I know what they think about me. I know they think I'm a ditz, an idiot. Truth is, I don't really care. They can think whatever they want. It's not like it matters. What I know is what's really important. I know that I'm thoughtful and kind. I know that I'm good student, if a little forgetful. I know my favorite color is pink, but that it's not really significant. I know I give everything my best effort, everything. I know I love them all.
They really do care for me. We've been through so much together; how could they not? They all want what is best for me. The only problem is that they don't know what that is. I'm afraid that not even I know. They want to see me become successful. It doesn't really matter at what, just that I'm successful. It's sweet, among other things. They want to stay in contact with me, even though I'm on a different continent. They have supported me and saved me time and time again, both here and in the digital world. Even Miyako in her ridiculous, hero-worshipping way has helped me so much. They need me. At least, I think they do.
Still, even with all of that, they don't understand me and I don't think they ever will. Actually, the thought is depressing: not even my closest friends understand me. If there were only a few people who ever understood who you were or how you thought, you would imagine that it would be your best friends. No. It's not. Of course. I do care about the world and what happens. I do pay attention to world events. I do do my best to do my "civil duty" and watch what happens in my area. I do make good grades in school. I do think about "deep" subjects. It's not like dresses and make up and pink are on my mind all the time. In fact, they are almost never on my mind. I try to keep my mind sharp, so that I won't be taken advantage of.
My parents comprehend even less than my fellow digidestined. They love me so much, more than I'll probably ever realize, but they have only the most basic concept of who I am. My mom has always, not to be rude, not been all there. She is such a nice woman and the perfect housewife. The cleaning, cooking, and smiling is always done at just the right time to make everyone happy. She just has a knack for it. She has always treated me like a princess, the only person who deserved all of her attention. Honestly, I think she has a complex, worse than just living vicariously through someone. My mother always made sure I was pretty and dolled up before I went out, even when I was five. I was a prize, but it was more complicated than that. I wasn't just a prize; I was a piece of her, something she had always wanted to be, but was never able to become. I was like some kind of customer that she would serve to the best of her abilities, or maybe even something closer to a master. If something wasn't done quite right, it was like she was afraid of receiving my wrath, or worse, my sadness. If ever I cried, it was like a hurricane had just erupted in my house; she would do anything to procure my happiness. Anything.
My father was a bit different, or, more likely, a lot different. He too loved me and wanted to see me completely taken care of. Fathers always protect their little girls like that. He certainly was the breadwinner of the family; there was no doubt. It was his pride and joy. He made the way for my mother and I. Only he knew what lay out in the world. He was supreme and my mom was happy with that; they both were in love with the roles that they played. It was difficult to find someone whose wishes matched so well with your own. One wanted to be the ruler and the other the ruled. Quite an arrangement, I admit. How they planned to fit me into it nicely, I don't know. Maybe they figured that with such parents my disposition would be one that wanted to be ruled, but loved being catered to. I know it doesn't make much sense, but my parents rarely do. This system worked, for quite awhile, after all, as a child, who doesn't want to be given everything you desire. My father was just a nice man who ate dinner with us, kissed my mom, and played fun games with me. My mom was the woman who stayed with me all day, bought me pretty things and taught me how to use makeup. I liked this setup and maybe I still do, but I feel like I'm trapped, like my parents are a part of another decade, maybe the fifties, but more twisted. When I'm at home, I'm a piece of this bizarre mockery of the past and put on my good daughter mask. The one that says that I belong here, that I love this life, and I need this whole charade.
I am a two dimensional person to them. They can't see past the pretty, pink daughter face that I wear, that I have to wear. I am here to fulfill their happy family fantasy. I paint my room nice; I keep it clean; I have stuffed animals piled everywhere. I smile and eat properly; I thank mom for all of the marvelous food she cooked and wonder aloud where she found the recipe, even though I know that she copied it from a Good Housekeeping issue and pretends that she just created it. Afterward I wash dishes and make small talk with whoever happens to share the duty with me, usually mom, she is the perfect housewife after all. I go into the living room and laugh at the family sitcoms and play Wheel of Fortune with the TV and my parents. And I know, I know, if they looked at little harder and tried to pay attention to what actually happens, they could figure out what I'm really like, how I feel, but they don't so I'll just continue with this act to keep them happy until they can find out who I am on their own.
I'm happy with my life though; I really am. Everyone loves me or at least think they love me. I have nice things. I make good marks in school. My room is always in perfect condition, even if I decide not to clean it. I'm pretty. I can eat all of my favorite foods. I have the nicest car at my school, the whole school, not just the students. I have a good-looking boyfriend, a bit thick, but caring. I've already been accepted into a good college and I have it all paid for. I'm healthy and thin, even if I eat some food that isn't too good for you. I must have the life that most people dream of.
I guess that I'm just depressed that I have all of this but no understanding from anyone. And it's selfish, I know. There are starving children in Africa, like my friends' parents always say. So I should be content with all of my material happiness, shouldn't I? Well, I'm not. What did anyone expect? I've been spoiled all my life. Of course I would turn out selfish. It makes sense.
At least when I lived in Japan I had Palmon. Yes, my Digimon is the only one that understands me and really, really loves me. Pathetic, I'm sure. Always when I tried to do anything, she was the only one who had true faith in me. Not just blind faith either, some of the others had that. Her faith had a base in her trust for me, trust that originated in her confidence in my abilities. She knew that I could do it, whether it is beating a hideous evil Digimon or just gathering firewood for the camp.
And I have been mean to her, unintentional, of course, but still, I hurt her. It's my selfishness again, I think. Like that time when I told her that I didn't want her to be a "stuffed animal" because I was known to have good taste. What was I thinking when I said that? Myself. Still, she stayed by me and helped me smuggle her past my parents. She even talked and joked with me that night. She protected me in the coming days. I never truly thanked her for that. I haven't gotten to do so yet. I don't want to die without her knowing what I really think and feel about her. She was my best friend in the group.
Maybe I am just what everyone thinks. Maybe I care too much about my looks and my reputation. Maybe I am stupid and ignorant. Maybe I have no true strength. Maybe I am just a tagalong, never contributing anything to the group. Maybe I am selfish and shallow and ditzy. I hope not.
Author's notes: I was having a discussion with my brother the other day about Digimon characters. When Mimi came up he said that he didn't like her and thought that she was just empty-headed. I disagreed completely. While pleading my case, I decided that she really needs to be shown in a different light and that I should write a short little story about her. So here it is. Probably needs some editing and such. I would appreciate some constructive criticism, keyword: constructive.
But You Can't Really Know
I know what they think about me. I know they think I'm a ditz, an idiot. Truth is, I don't really care. They can think whatever they want. It's not like it matters. What I know is what's really important. I know that I'm thoughtful and kind. I know that I'm good student, if a little forgetful. I know my favorite color is pink, but that it's not really significant. I know I give everything my best effort, everything. I know I love them all.
They really do care for me. We've been through so much together; how could they not? They all want what is best for me. The only problem is that they don't know what that is. I'm afraid that not even I know. They want to see me become successful. It doesn't really matter at what, just that I'm successful. It's sweet, among other things. They want to stay in contact with me, even though I'm on a different continent. They have supported me and saved me time and time again, both here and in the digital world. Even Miyako in her ridiculous, hero-worshipping way has helped me so much. They need me. At least, I think they do.
Still, even with all of that, they don't understand me and I don't think they ever will. Actually, the thought is depressing: not even my closest friends understand me. If there were only a few people who ever understood who you were or how you thought, you would imagine that it would be your best friends. No. It's not. Of course. I do care about the world and what happens. I do pay attention to world events. I do do my best to do my "civil duty" and watch what happens in my area. I do make good grades in school. I do think about "deep" subjects. It's not like dresses and make up and pink are on my mind all the time. In fact, they are almost never on my mind. I try to keep my mind sharp, so that I won't be taken advantage of.
My parents comprehend even less than my fellow digidestined. They love me so much, more than I'll probably ever realize, but they have only the most basic concept of who I am. My mom has always, not to be rude, not been all there. She is such a nice woman and the perfect housewife. The cleaning, cooking, and smiling is always done at just the right time to make everyone happy. She just has a knack for it. She has always treated me like a princess, the only person who deserved all of her attention. Honestly, I think she has a complex, worse than just living vicariously through someone. My mother always made sure I was pretty and dolled up before I went out, even when I was five. I was a prize, but it was more complicated than that. I wasn't just a prize; I was a piece of her, something she had always wanted to be, but was never able to become. I was like some kind of customer that she would serve to the best of her abilities, or maybe even something closer to a master. If something wasn't done quite right, it was like she was afraid of receiving my wrath, or worse, my sadness. If ever I cried, it was like a hurricane had just erupted in my house; she would do anything to procure my happiness. Anything.
My father was a bit different, or, more likely, a lot different. He too loved me and wanted to see me completely taken care of. Fathers always protect their little girls like that. He certainly was the breadwinner of the family; there was no doubt. It was his pride and joy. He made the way for my mother and I. Only he knew what lay out in the world. He was supreme and my mom was happy with that; they both were in love with the roles that they played. It was difficult to find someone whose wishes matched so well with your own. One wanted to be the ruler and the other the ruled. Quite an arrangement, I admit. How they planned to fit me into it nicely, I don't know. Maybe they figured that with such parents my disposition would be one that wanted to be ruled, but loved being catered to. I know it doesn't make much sense, but my parents rarely do. This system worked, for quite awhile, after all, as a child, who doesn't want to be given everything you desire. My father was just a nice man who ate dinner with us, kissed my mom, and played fun games with me. My mom was the woman who stayed with me all day, bought me pretty things and taught me how to use makeup. I liked this setup and maybe I still do, but I feel like I'm trapped, like my parents are a part of another decade, maybe the fifties, but more twisted. When I'm at home, I'm a piece of this bizarre mockery of the past and put on my good daughter mask. The one that says that I belong here, that I love this life, and I need this whole charade.
I am a two dimensional person to them. They can't see past the pretty, pink daughter face that I wear, that I have to wear. I am here to fulfill their happy family fantasy. I paint my room nice; I keep it clean; I have stuffed animals piled everywhere. I smile and eat properly; I thank mom for all of the marvelous food she cooked and wonder aloud where she found the recipe, even though I know that she copied it from a Good Housekeeping issue and pretends that she just created it. Afterward I wash dishes and make small talk with whoever happens to share the duty with me, usually mom, she is the perfect housewife after all. I go into the living room and laugh at the family sitcoms and play Wheel of Fortune with the TV and my parents. And I know, I know, if they looked at little harder and tried to pay attention to what actually happens, they could figure out what I'm really like, how I feel, but they don't so I'll just continue with this act to keep them happy until they can find out who I am on their own.
I'm happy with my life though; I really am. Everyone loves me or at least think they love me. I have nice things. I make good marks in school. My room is always in perfect condition, even if I decide not to clean it. I'm pretty. I can eat all of my favorite foods. I have the nicest car at my school, the whole school, not just the students. I have a good-looking boyfriend, a bit thick, but caring. I've already been accepted into a good college and I have it all paid for. I'm healthy and thin, even if I eat some food that isn't too good for you. I must have the life that most people dream of.
I guess that I'm just depressed that I have all of this but no understanding from anyone. And it's selfish, I know. There are starving children in Africa, like my friends' parents always say. So I should be content with all of my material happiness, shouldn't I? Well, I'm not. What did anyone expect? I've been spoiled all my life. Of course I would turn out selfish. It makes sense.
At least when I lived in Japan I had Palmon. Yes, my Digimon is the only one that understands me and really, really loves me. Pathetic, I'm sure. Always when I tried to do anything, she was the only one who had true faith in me. Not just blind faith either, some of the others had that. Her faith had a base in her trust for me, trust that originated in her confidence in my abilities. She knew that I could do it, whether it is beating a hideous evil Digimon or just gathering firewood for the camp.
And I have been mean to her, unintentional, of course, but still, I hurt her. It's my selfishness again, I think. Like that time when I told her that I didn't want her to be a "stuffed animal" because I was known to have good taste. What was I thinking when I said that? Myself. Still, she stayed by me and helped me smuggle her past my parents. She even talked and joked with me that night. She protected me in the coming days. I never truly thanked her for that. I haven't gotten to do so yet. I don't want to die without her knowing what I really think and feel about her. She was my best friend in the group.
Maybe I am just what everyone thinks. Maybe I care too much about my looks and my reputation. Maybe I am stupid and ignorant. Maybe I have no true strength. Maybe I am just a tagalong, never contributing anything to the group. Maybe I am selfish and shallow and ditzy. I hope not.