disclaimer
makeup
And she wakes up, all alone. She's scared and she's lonely and she's tired and she is so afraid of her own shadow, but then she remembers that she can't feel.
A notion goes through her head that she is not real. Never was. Never will be despite the petty attempts at heart collection.
Then she forgets. Everything.
But she remembers the place where she is at.
Large rural setting, tall projecting buildings protecting a child's setting, haven. Dirt in patches. The Sandlot minus the sand.
She remembers a mission here, with him. She remembers playing her part, hating him with illusory anger and yanking him with an invisible chain.
She wanted to bite his tongue, even though he wasn't talking, and just shatter those cute puppy dog eyes of his. Shatter shatter. Into pieces.
She wants to go home, or the very rendition of it, and to forget the phantom rays of the sun. Always setting perpetually and always burning her skin with its coldness. It wants to leave the town as quick as she does.
But she can't go home, and she doesn't know why. Hands of intense twilight seem to bind her down against her will. The sun smiles through teeth of pinkish-blue, it finally found an everlasting friend.
And with the sun, she watches each day as the children gather like dragonflies on that rough patch of dirt. They sit around, eat, talk, laugh, enjoy each other, and ignore her presence. Sometimes she sits with them, listening to their conversation, sitting on one of the boy's lap when the little group is huddled together, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. The boy just shudders as some phantom winds of silver blow through the yellow spikes of his hair.
Yet other times, she is savage against the oblivious group. She lashes out viciously at the sole girl in the group, jealous of all the attention the boys gave her. The woman would kick and scream and slash and swipe and bite the girl, but any and all physical attempts directed at the girl were in vain. The woman had found that her limbs would just go through the girl. The woman would sob after, while the merry group disbanded. It seems the young girl had wanted to go home early because she felt a supernatural chill down her spine.
That was how things went. A week passed by, and the woman just stood there, watching the children. A month passed by and the woman just stood there, hating the children.
She soon lost track of time. It was not that hard, really. The world had hardly changed since her apparition there. She wondered if the children ever really aged…
The woman would sometimes stand in the middle of the field, not feeling the sun against her translucent skin, or sit down on one of the many benches the townspeople no doubt placed for the luxury of their children.
She would sit or drape her sinuous body across the long bench and try to remember the whites of her synthetic home. Or try to forget this perpetual world where everything is always the same.
She sits now, watching the children on her lone bench, when she notices a new face. Heels crunch- C R U N C H -crunch against dirt as she notices a familiar grab.
A figure with the same organization cloak as hers.
As the figure draws closer, the woman forgets her accomplishments, goals, ambitions. She can't remember her home or her dysfunctional family living in the whites of its shadow. The woman finds it ironic that she misses those memories, even though they had been vexing her so much.
The figure stops, and the woman only know realizes that the figure is nothing more than a child.
"Do you know who I am?" the voice of the figure is airy and disconcerting. The woman opted to ignore the figure by stretching her entire body against the bench. She remembers, but at the same time, she doesn't. An ill bigoted tip of the tongue experience.
A name does pop up, though.
Roxas?
the woman has to try to refrain from crying at the name. She feels sadness at the very tip of the 'r'. A lost brother. Is he her brother?
At the sound of the name, the figure shakes its head. The name is soon lost in a multiple of others, not one of them belonging to the woman.
"We actually never met,"
She wants to laugh, but she can't. Was the figure seriously trying to get to her? But she remembers the cloak the figure wears, remembers other siblings wearing it. They had to have met through that dark uniform, right?
Then she just forgets her trail of thinking. Dead end.
It seems to be happening a lot to her these days.
"Do you remember your name?"
Here, the woman finally does laugh. She loses herself, and in-between half choked sobs and fits of laughter, she tells the figure she can't.
The figure waits patiently while the woman calms down.
Eventually, the woman explains that she can't decide whether her name is Elerna, Lerena, Aneler, or just Mitch. She loses herself into a sob at Mitch.
The face behind the hood is monotone to the woman's sobs. She extends a hand.
"You forgot the ex,"
And the woman feels a light bulb go off in her head.
Lar…
Ene
X
L A R X E N E
The woman feels a surge of happiness go through her head. Yet it dies down unexpectedly fast as the woman recalls that even Larxene is not her real name.
"You are a nobody after all,"
The figure seemed to have read her mind. Two names. Where is her real name?
Larxene bares her teeth at the figure. Your turn, her snarl seems to say.
The figure just chuckles.
"My name is no.1,"
Larxene gasps at the name. She can't recall a name, but a title. The Superior. The figure just chuckles at the name, waving an arm to dispel the notion.
"Call me Xion,"
Even though Larxene hopes for an unexpected recall, nothing comes to her mind. She doesn't know who this Xion person is.
"You met the other me,"
Xion whispers through her hood. Larxene now notices the hood is holding her identity tightly.
The other you?
Larxene inquires, but the figure is quiet. Xion just stares at the mahogany dirt in a deep cognitive state.
"I can help you,"
Xion breaks from its trance with a rising of its head. Larxene just raises one golden eyebrow in question.
"Move. You want to move, don't you?"
There is a flash of light, and suddenly a keyblade is pointed in Larxene's direction. The wielder is dancing in its stance, ready for the heat of battle. Larxene only smiles.
Finally some entertainment.
I'm not going to make this easy,
Despite the arrogant way she said the words, her face took a tone of remorsefulness. She remembers thunder around her fingers, and suddenly she is armed. Her fabled Foudre. She loved them more than herself at one point. The rush at each other, neither one expecting... the unexpected.
A fight.
The sun watched with a bleated blush, while children ignored the scuffle to attend to their own affairs. All they heard was a silent rush of wind.
Slash slash slash slash slash slash slash…
And all Larxene really remembers is the color of her own blood.
Has she ever bled that way?
concrit greatly appreciated