Today for me has been completely sucky. My brother is currently in casualty after falling off his bike, so I'm in a very depressed mood. Which means you lot get fics to -match- my mood. Here, I give you- when the bladebreakers get old!
The old man sits by the window and remembers. He remembers the past, the wonderful past where he was young and carefree and happy. Remembers his friends. Remembers them by face- he has long forgotten their names. With shaking, crinkled hands he reaches out for the beyblade that still sits on the windowsill. It's been there for so long...
He remembers competing, him and his beyblade going against tougher and tougher opponents and coming out of battles grinning. He remembers the good times. The fun times. But there are no fun times now.
He had a daughter, once, and a wife, but both of them beat him to the grave. He doesn't even have the energy to take them flowers any more- arthritis has seen to that. At first he laughed. Said Old Arthur Itis was picking at him. Now with his knuckles twisted and aching and joints that scream every time he moves, it isn't so funny.
He wonders how his friends are. If they're still alive, even. It's been many years since he's seen any of them. The Chinese one...he died. Died young, of cancer. Perhaps it was better to die before you lost control of your body. Then there was the one who'd had a computer...
There were others, he is sure, but their memories evade him. Sometimes he thinks one of them had purple hair, but other times he isn't so sure. The hair on his own head is white now, to match his paper-thin skin. He remembers beyblading. The exhilarating feeling of launching it, and battling with it... But that was long ago. Now there is no beyblading. Now he is old. Now he doesn't have the strength to walk up stairs, even.
He isn't so sure he likes now. The nurses are kind, but sometimes they make him do things he doesn't want to. A little girl came to see him the other day, and he wasn't quite sure who she was. Experimentally, he tried a few names, but in the end he was wrong. He's always wrong, these days. That's why he remembers.
It makes him feel better to remember the good times, when he travelled the world and made a name for himself. He can't quite remember the name of his old team, but he thinks it was something like Blade Sharks. Yes...that sounds familiar, somehow...but... With a creaking groan, he shifts. Sometimes he wonders why he spends so much time remembering, then Arthur rears his head again and he knows. Arthur might get his limbs, but he can't take away the memories.
It's a pity the memories aren't doing too well either. Sometimes he forgets his own name. That's embarrassing. His fingers close tighter round the beyblade, and he starts to cry. The door clicks open and a nurse walks in. He always knows which ones are the nurses. They all wear white and carry expressions that brook no disagreement. "I see you're playing with your beyblade again?" Tears forgotten, he sputters, insulted.
"I don't play!" His voice is weak and weedy now. Sometimes he remembers it being deeper, and louder.
"Yes, yes. I know. Now it's time for your medicine..." He grumbles. Medicine. Bah. The nurse shovels his pills down his neck and looks down at him approvingly. He just mutters darkly about playing and looks away, his beyblade still clutched in his painful, twisted fingers. "I'll be back in two hours for your next dose."
He mutters again, and she walks away, straightening his bedclothes. His room used to feel small, but now it seems bigger, seeing as it takes him a good ten minutes to get from one end to the other. He remembers a time when he could have cartwheeled across it in seconds. But those days are long gone. All he has now is his beyblade and his memories.
The nurse gives the pillow one last fluffing and walks out. Before the door closes, he can see the brass plate on it.
-Room Twelve: Tyson Granger-
Moot. Hope you liked it.
If you're feeling kind you could say hi to my brother- Streets of Rage- and tell him to get well soon! If not, well, R&R anyway!