Ah, how rusty am I? A new pen name, a time of new beginnings. This is a story I'm writing because it's been in my head for some time. Disclaimer: I don't own anything except the clothes on my back and a big golden cat bank (which currently holds 7 dollars and forty-eight cents), so I certainly don't own Weiss Kruez.
Prologue:
She was sleeping again, so still like when he'd first seen her in the arms of another man. Motionless and comatose, fresh from a rescue mission and still in her hospital gown. Back then, Ran had insisted she'd wake up, but now there wasn't even a chance.
So, who killed you, Aya?
Yohji was a sick man. He'd stolen a body. But her brother was even sicker than he, taking away the one part of Aya that he still had left. What was it that made him do such a thing? He couldn't stand to admit who his sister had loved more. And so he lied. He lied about everything. And everything turned their backs on Yohji.
They say I'm to blame.
Her hair was so soft still, like it'd just been washed. Just like when she'd come out of the shower of their apartment in her bathrobe that was the color of vanilla ice cream and even softer than her skin. Her tresses always dried perfectly straight and hung dark around her small shoulders like a mantle, brushing his cheek when she knelt over him and kissed his forehead, smiling. Playing.
Yohji built her an alter to lay upon, a shrine of broken boards and lit candles that smelled faintly of all the things she had been. He laid her gently upon it, arranged her hair, touched the hollow of her slender neck, and remembered how it felt to wake up so miserably early for work and feel her hand curling around his wrist as he sat hunched over on the edge of their bed. Her face buried in her pillow with only a muffled goodbye, and the pressure of her grip was all that indicated her consciousness.
How about when it snowed? And it was just you and I in the emptiness of our room, and it was so quiet we could hear the train…
He took out his cigarette lighter and smiled at her. Hey, Aya, you used to sleep on the bathroom floor amid your broken dreams and broken heart and the tears that sparkled on the glass like some cursed art from a fairy tale book.
But you never hurt yourself, you punished me instead. With your silence and your poor health and…
He could still see her, even now, sitting in the car with her face pressed to the rain-streaked window and her knees hugged tightly to her chest.
You were so beautiful. I loved you so much.
And that's where the story began.
At the end of it all, though, the girl who looked just like her father lay in Schuldig's bed, a visitor and his only surviving companion. Weiss and Schwartz, the unlucky pawns of a sort of killing game, she had only him. Only the German man who didn't eat enough and was always smoking and looking at her with a sad smile.
He still was haunted by the surreal vision of himself laying on the floor, watching the child he cared for like his own being dragged from the house, given to the men who he knew would abuse her, dispose of her. She lay with her hands on the thresh hold of the house the next morning, and nothing he said could make her answer. Oh, Crawford's daughter…I'm so sorry…
The girl who was the image of the man she always hated never left him. He was twenty-five years her senior, and aged so far beyond his assassin days, but still looked young somehow. She never could, however, understand why he stood in the snow in only his pajamas every frosty morning, staring at the sky, waiting for…
A voice?
"Don't be sad, missy," he told her when the tears rolled down her cheeks. "I'm here, and we survived."
"I don't remember them," she whispered, sitting on the yellowing tiles of their small kitchen, her legs stretched in front of her, photographs scattered everywhere; the drawer that she had ripped out of place in her desperation to find the faces before they were lost forever lay overturned. Debris was everywhere, and her head hung heavily forward, fat tears dripping to the floor soundlessly.
Schuldig stood over her, but slowly crouched down to her level, looking at her, trying to see her eyes through the hair that obscured them. "You won't forget."
"My father…" she said brokenly. "I hated him so much…and now…I can't find his face…"
Schuldig picked up one of the pictures and saw a gouged out space where his dear friend's head had once been. The kitchen knife lay on the dull-colored material of the girl's long skirt. "You will remember all of them."
"I don't want to remember how they died…"
He didn't answer. He already knew it was impossible to forget.
"When we were so happy…and bickered uselessly…and I…I just want to see remember those times…"
Yes… Let's go back to a time before we were hunted.
Next chapter is gonna go back to the very beginning so things will start to make sense... comment. Andit won't be so trippy and hard to follow next time, trust me. lol