Author's Notes: Contest fic for the Clan Daimaou fanfiction contest on DeviantArt. Check it out.
Disclaimer: I in no part claim ownership of any of the Dragonball serries characters in any way, shape or form whatsoever.
Christmas, Merry?
For a long time now I have wondered about my ambitions, wondered about my sole purpose in life, where I was going, what I had done before- childish things some might say, but the opinions of others never dwelled long on my mind. I had better things to do. I thought I did at least.
It's a funny thing, how you can think one thing at a time and only minutes later be against that thought with all your body, soul, mind. For me those minutes lasted years, years in which I spent my time silently breaking people, forcing them to submission by doing purely, simply nothing other than exist- breath- live.
Had I known things would turn out like this, I would have changed, Or would I? The matter of a man and his family is a delicate one, one that with the slightest change in the winds can shift, turns from butterfly to moth, to decay, a stain upon the world.
I'm loosing it. I can feel it. My cool, my calm, my secret I love to kill, to share. What makes me who I am is slowly slipping through my fingers like water. I can't hold on, I've tried. No matter what I do or what I say, It will be gone, flying beyond my reach, beyond my hope
But for however long I can hold on to it, I will. I will keep It safe, keep it dear, love it, hate it, destroy it- anything I can do will be for it- him.
Never did I tell and never will I tell, not even to you. No one will know. I'm taking it to my grave for the dead to pick apart- only the dead.
You'll love it, I promise. My mind is not fragmented, simply my December thoughts. You couldn't understand, and I do not expect you to it would be unfair, unjust. All I ask of you, human, is to listen, to hear me speak through my silence, reveal my mind like an open book- the test has always been there, you just haven't seen. Fool.
Once, long ago, I relied on myself. I could do things by myself, I was perfect, and I was proud enough to not accept that fact.
Who am I? I'm not perfect. I'm not God. I'm not an idol…I am. . .I'm a saint of a sinner, a pawn perhaps, but mostly, what I feel, what I know I am is what I was born to be. A prince? No. A leader? No. A Father? Never. I was made a demon, and I will fulfill that one position in life if I am useless for everything else. I will be what I always was and never had the courage to accept all this time.
No more rambling. I've spoken my share and them some. It's over. Silence can reign a thousand years. Frankly, I don't give a damn. Let the earth do what it must to save itself. I must do what I can to save it- him him him. . .It…..Him….The same will always be. Beast and man.
The snow came, at first as a rush of innocence in a land long since deprived of the childhood bliss that comes with the first winter snow. It had always been like this for as long as he could remember. The first snow always was delicate, peaceful, like a still photograph. The children would play, the adults listen, watch, enjoy the few precious moments before their children pushed them away for the 'better things' in life and those first trips into the wonderland were all but lost in the diesel fumes and growing decay of society.
These times always managed to get to him in one way or another. Despite the Christmas season, which never held brace in his mind to begin with, was now a saddening time, one that made him stop every so often, hold his loose garments close, and contemplate things before it became too much for one solitary person to handle. It seemed that as the years passed these sessions lasted longer, drawing themselves out like people on deathbeds, grasping for those few moments more, all to catch the next breath, see the next spring rose bloom, see, feel, touch everything just one last time before the sky would be blocked and the taste of sweet wine traded for the peat and lime.
It was the city's fault, always had been. The very place itself was foreboding, full of fragmented memories, wounds that never quite healed, love that had been rinsed away by bleach that still remained heavy in the air. Closing emerald lids over eyes that were comparable to onyx in depth and color, he continued, one step after the other, as he had always taken things. His tracks were not left behind, for the snow soon covered them, making a new surface, unread, unflawed, waiting to entrap another lost soul to add to the collection.
As vengeful monsters the buildings stood, each one with its own feeling, its own cast steel personality that could be seen through closed eyes and heard through the echoing bellows of metal bowing to nature.
It was a graveyard for the living.
To any normal eye the city would seem pristine, as though it had never been touched by time and time could never touch it, no matter how the old man pushed, the city could never give. Homer's Cyclops, the city mimicked it as a blinded giant, unable to sense the cries of its victims, but still hunting them down one by one, smelling their very blood out as a hound. It had always been a vicious game.
Howling, the wind bit into the ground, sinking iced razors into the soil itself, picking up glassy crystals of snowflakes and hurling them at the one man army which dared oppose its will. Still, the man stood as the Greek statues of days long since past, an imbedable fortress that withstood a thousand generations and would live to see a thousand more.
Leaving a trail of footsteps across the snow-covered path, he kept on, holding his head high even though his spirits were lower than the ground he tread upon. A tiny package was kept next to his heart, held by a steady hand that had been scared and calloused throughout the pitfalls of life. It was a small thing, wrapped in brown paper and held together by twine. Not what one would generally call a Christmas present by any stretch of the word, but the common sights that humans were acclimated to did not apply to him. Few aspects of human life did and would.
Doors creaked open as the wind manipulated them like puppets, windows slammed down as though prompted by some invisible force, but most of all, the eyes kept on watching, waiting for him to take one wrong step, to make a solitary mistake so they could accuse. It was the way of the land.
He sighed softly; shaking his head is disdain for this place, this wasteland, this city of lost souls confined in an impermeable trap for all of eternity. Something inside him ached, a dull throb, like a heartbeat steadily slowing, but becoming louder, more painful with each beat. Call it heartache, call it paranoia, call him insane, whatever the case was, this hellhole was causing it.
They say absolute power rules absolutely and those who have power are unwilling to share it. It has and will always be true. This city had absolute power over everyone in it, as though it were the dungeon master and the citizens were no more than worthless prisoners. Come hell or high water, the city would keep its grasp, hold onto it till its last dying breath, and even after age had come to claim its prize, the power would not be pulled from cold, bony fingers.
A child of no more than five sat upon a covered dumpster, worn clothes proving to burn as bright as embers across the perfection of the snow. His eyes were hollow, an empty shade of brown and dark as the seas are wide. He was only staring out, wetting his lips every so often as if expecting a feast that never was to come; because of this he was the most lost of them all. He was never to change, never to gain, never to loose; he would stay as he is till the day he died, and then his children would carry out the legacy of starvation.
Turning a blind eye to the child, he pressed on, body frozen and emotions much the same. An alleyway came up. Nothing was particularly special in its appearance, only a mess of concrete and red brick that had been stained by the elements. Ice hung from the building, carnivorous teeth waiting to close in on the willing prey. When everything was quiet, when the wind stopped howling and the snow fell silent under ones feet, a little voice whispers, "I love you, I'll kill you"
Glancing to the far end of the way, one single door made itself known, choosing to open on the wind's breath only when gazed upon and slamming shut once it had lost attention.
It was his door.
Everybody has a door. Some doors lead to fame, fortune, anything the heart can desire- a fairy tale door so to say. Other doors lead to a life of poverty, of sadness, the horror life. But this door, this one was different. It had no lock or key, no knob or opening. To many it would have seemed useless, and for the most part it was that. This door, unlike all the others had no destination. It lead nowhere, not past not present, nor future. It leads into blackness, void of all hope, of light, of sound. It was the claimer of everything good and righteous in this world and the maker of sorrow of factories, of broken lives. It was the Devil's City.
Clenching a fist till mauve droplets appeared in the drifts, he drew in a breath and sauntered towards his destination, calm starting to dissipate as he drew nearer. Although no physical threat came from the door, something else did, something far more harmful than a thousand curses, more breaking than a lifetime of labor; it was the memories.
Closing his eyes, he went back to a time where all the grass was green, the skies were always blue, and the children, however loud and obnoxious they were, always played without the constant fear in their eyes that today might be their last. Even though the moment only lasted but a few second, a passing glance at a playground, it was still one of the few things he cared to remember this time of the year when all was covered, when all was dead.
In another breath came the remembrance of a child with nappy hair and limited potential; a child whose pale lime skin and hopeful blue eyes had not experienced the pain that came along with being born of this world, a child whose biggest fears was the monster under the bed. That child was gone now, and he could have saved him. He could, but the world was more important than one idolizing kid. Nine billion was more important than one . . .Wasn't it?
Extending his hand to catch the door before it slammed shut again, he looked upon the engraved words. "No Daimaou", clear as the daylight, as though the words had been burned in. Closing his eyes once more, gathering his thoughts, he stepped in, into the darkness, into the home that once was.
Not even a flicker of a light existed aside from what little the fading gray sky had to give. It was a dead house with a dead past, not even rats cared to dwell in this place, for only the concrete and iron could withstand the pressure of pure abstinence from society, from family. Standing in the doorway, body outlines by an almost heavenly light from outside, he brought the package to his sight, staring at it with eyes sharper than any blade and colder than the deepest regions of space. The package was slightly wrinkled on one side where he haphazardly had attempted to wrap it only hours before. Running calloused hands over the otherwise smooth surface, his stone expression softened. It became an almost surprised expression with eyes wide open, lips parted narrowly; letting puffs of air escape as transparent clouds.
Snapping out of his daze, he regained that air he always held about him and stepped forward like a general leading a proud army. His heart set the drumbeat, going at a steady speed, yet still far faster than normal. Hidden excitement took the form of a partial smirk as he awaited the time he could finally deliver the gift into the hands of someone who was convinced he no longer mattered. That would be the best blessing of all, to see the face of that person, that look of melting astonishment, a look that cannot be bought or manufactured, something of the utmost purity.
Silence came to welcome his presence, pristine silence. The seconds passed into minutes, which dragged at his very being. Keeping his shoulders level, he looked around slowly, as if suddenly expecting to be attacked. The tingling feeling traveled down his spine, causing him to shiver, and still, he waited for the moment when the child would come to him as he had those many years ago.
Hours past, one or two at first, then they came in a plague . . .Three . . .Four . . .Six . . .Nothing. He stood there in that lonely room, haunting it like the long since forgotten. The dull ache was back, stronger than ever. It choked him, pulled him to the ground, crushed his every dream, his every hope as though it were nothing more than garbage. With a trembling breath he set the package down at his feet, hesitated, catching his last fair glance of the wonder that he had kept safe for so long, then he left. Simply, silently, as though not a thing had happened, as if he had never walked inside in the first place.
A set of crystal blue eyes watched him go, watched the way he walked, the way he held his head, watched everything about him from above on a nearby rooftop. Pale pink lips formed hushed words and skin of he fairest lime wrinkled in disgust with itself. Steadying a quaking hand, he climbed down slowly, not wanting to disrupt the person who he had disappointed the most.
Landing with feet apart on the ground, he crept into the building, timid and aware, praying to any force that would listen that he would not be caught. Clutching his thin coat to his sides, he staggered in and knelt by the parcel, shaking from head to toe from the cold and rising anticipation. Taking a trembling claw, he warily cut the twine then winced, under the impression he had committed a heinous act. Taking a breath he sliced the tape open and peeled back the paper.
Immediately after catching sight of the gift he stood up, wiped his nose with the back of his hand before folding his arms over his chest and pacing the room. Mute words formed in his eyes before he could unclench his throat enough to speak. Faint whimpers came from his restraint of the howls that wished to break through. Placing a hand over his eyes to hide his shame he dropped to his knees in front of where the gift had been laid.
It was a winged cross, one with sterling feathers any angel would be proud to call his own. It was beauty, grace, a symbol of perfection, of the love that still existed though all these years, and of a love that would never be forgotten.
Strands of grayed hair fell into his face as he picked himself up and ran outside, hoping to catch the only person that mattered anymore. Turning out of the alley with newfound hope resting on his sleeve and smile that seemingly could never fade on his face, he met only a wall of snow falling down in the wake.
He was gone, it was too late.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he turned around and went back in hopes that the man would soon return; he even wrapped the gift back up and waited in the exact spot. But nothing was ever to come, there was to be no meeting, no proud tears, no embrace, nothing. It was all lost that one evening when the foolishness and pride he had ceased his father's happiness, and in that, his.
Piccolo died three days later, going peacefully in his sleep as he waited for his son to return to him, something that would only happen in his eternal dream.