Disclaimer: Fromidam: Yay, thank you so much for reviewing! Yeah, I have no life, so I update very often x p Sure, how about I do a dualrival and a ferriswheel one? I haven't done enough of those two, so thanks for requesting!
Question:
My Answer:
Characters: Lucario, as requested.
Summary: There are some Pokedex entries that make you wonder.
Lucario
Lucario: The Aura Pokemon. A well-trained one can sense auras to identify and take in the feelings of creatures over half a mile away.
There are a hundred different shades for a hundred different emotions.
That woman over there, the one who's waiting to hear about her husband, is surrounded by a burgundy haze. Her daughter is pulsing with the red of anger. Their thoughts are loud and tripping over themselves, a dizzying circulation of blame, self-hate and anguish.
(Do you know that red used to be my favourite? Now all it means to me is you dying in a puddle of the hated colour.)
The nurses wear halos of pink compassion, wings of gray exhaustion fluttering at their backs. They fill the hallways, their uniforms sterile white against the backdrop of pinwheeling colours and thoughts.
…Wish I could go home…one nurse thinks.
…I wonder what happened to…wonders another.
…I hate this place…
…Poor thing…
…I don't think I can deal with this anymore…
I sit in your doorway, noting each aura. Diluted yellow for hopefulness; muddied green for resentment; turquoise for sorrow; dark blue for fear…
"Lucario?" you croak.
…and black for dying.
I turn. You are propped up in your too-clean bed, surrounded by your too-clean walls. I lift myself off the floor to stand by your side, and look up at your wax skin and stare-through-me eyes.
(Do you know that your aura used to be metallic? Now it's as dark as the shadows under your eyes.)
"Lucario." Your voice, a broken record that is as chipper as it is hoarse, tells me what it tells me every morning. "Lucario, when I'm out of this place, we'll travel again. I promise."
Your hand, gnarled as the roots of an ancient oak tree, reaches out to pat my graying head. I smile back just as flimsily as I always do, not daring to inspect your face too closely- it's as blank as the canvases you used to paint on, so I know that even if I do I won't find anything there anyway.
It's the same for your thoughts. They're darkening along with your aura, and you can barely recognize me anymore.
It hurts.
So I turn my head away as in comes a nurse to feed you and dress you, since you can't do it by yourself anymore. You haven't been able to since your mother died, and you began taking all those pills. You haven't been able to since you started reading and rereading Hamlet, and comparing yourself to both him and Ophelia. You haven't been able to since you finally let insanity embrace you, and you wandered out into the street only to get hit by a car.
(Do you know that even if you didn't develop dementia so soon you would still end up here sooner or later, because that's how all humans seem to end their lives?
(No, you don't.
(You don't know much of anything anymore.)