Wasting Misery
By: M o o n M y s t
12.20.03
The view wasn't quite clear, but it was all I had. Lying on a floor of white marble, I watched, and listened. With each blow to the foundation of the old house from the unrelenting wind, came a tired creaking. The groans were joined by drips of the shower I had just exited from, melodic tunes that comforted my uneasy soul.
The ceiling was white – or rather off-white. As was my heart – pure, yet forever tainted. So strange was the outlook from the bottom. Warm back against bitter ground. That too would be unadulterated, if it weren't for the spills of bright red blood. Was that my blood? Or perhaps some of the blood I had shed? Or maybe even both… I didn't know – unsure if I had better attempt to remember it. It didn't seem all that important.
AB negative. That was my type – so I did fit into some sort of category, though it was a rather exclusive one. The randomness of my thoughts scared me – I was usually extremely blunt in my notions – and never before had I considered that I might be somewhat spontaneous. I think I liked it on some elusive level.
The wind died down, or rather was silent for the time being, probably just resting until it could come back with an even greater strength. And the water that was dripping slowly came to a halt. Only a faint tune of stillness was left to comfort me.
Music was always calming, though one such as me rarely needed calming – such was my phlegmatic character. But there was something about the merging of chords and emotion and calculations into one perfect sound that warmed me to the endearing harmony.
I hummed quietly, an oddly familiar song that was caught in my head, though I couldn't remember its lyrics. And it was then that I realized that I was still staring up at the ceiling of the bathroom floor – searching my mind for something – anything, actually. Anything to keep me alive.
I had no one – nothing. I didn't even have a name or reputation. My soul purpose in life had been ripped away from me so that there was nothing left. No one – nothing. It was consuming, the feeling of desperation and desolation. I didn't know what to do or think or say – only that there was nothing to do or think or say. I was finished.
Standing tentatively, as not to let any of the disregarded blood touch my innocent skin – there was enough blood stained upon them already. But unexpectedly, I looked up at the mirror, hanging upon the corrupted walls.
Emeralds gazed back at me – searching for something that I could not provide. Wait, emeralds – plural. The usual russet locks that screened my eyes had been pushed off to the side carelessly. And that may have been the first time I took a genuine look at myself – fully.
And the discreet hint of throbbing in my neck reminded me that I was alive – at least by medical standards, that is. But was I truly and absolutely alive? I certainly felt a definite sort of rush from piloting, but that was done. Was there anything else that made me feel that way? Or even remotely like it? The answer was plain and distinct – No.
Usual impeccable logic flooded into my weary mind. If there was nothing that made me feel alive, then why keep up the charade of being so?
I didn't know. I had no answer to my own valid question. Perhaps that was what drove me near the end – the fact that I had no reasoning of anything – that my world and purpose had become ambiguous when I needed stability the most. The feeling was killing me quickly, preying on my thoughts – trying to end my unshakeable sorrow.
I was sad.
Sad – it was something. No, it was more than something – it was an emotion – a feeling. A sensation went up my spine as I stared more intently at the knife, which had involuntarily made it's way into my hand. I was sad.
Perhaps this was what I was looking for. Though I did not know it, the little impression that it had made would affect my entire life – and the fact that I still had one. Sadness was but a mendable problem, however, feeling sadness was a miracle I never expected. It allowed me to feel more – to reach into my very soul and recognize who I was. I was astounded at the affects that such thing had. I never would have thought that by being one extreme, I could easily switch to the other, instead of being stuck in indifference.
Looking away from my portrait in the mirror, I leaned against the wall, which now seemed much more white than any other colour. A sigh escaped my customarily closed lips. There was life…and with life ultimately came a purpose – it was my duty to find what it was. My mission was to find my mission. Though seemingly ironic, it made perfect sense in my mind, which is where it really counted.
The night waned as I thought, deliberating what to do with my newly found enlightenment. And appearing gradually, yet faithfully, came a faint pink hue on the horizon – the promise of hope that came with a tomorrow.
A/N- wow, don't know where that came from - just the result of a weary mind. *sigh* tomorrow's my b-day...in case you didn't understand - this is Trowa's POV. I didn't mention names because i was afraid it might mess up the flow. I like it, though it is a bit on the depressing side - perfect to get you in the mood for the holidays. Well, thank you for reading this - it means a lot to a tired almost seventeen-year-old. Thanx! Loves