It came back to me in pieces. In dreams. Or nightmares. I couldn't really tell the difference, you see, because every time I woke up—dream or nightmare—my pillow was soaked by sweat and tears. I didn't understand what that was. What it meant. I didn't want to. Other things were far more important than my nocturnal escapades.
You see, my mom was sick. I can't remember what it was called, but it left her bedridden. She had been since my father left. I only had a couple of memories from him. His laugh. His shadow. The sound of eating at any time during the day. But he left. Said he'd come back. So my mother lay sick in bed, feeling like death, but the love of her life had said he'd come back. When she looked worse than usual, I'd tell her he was coming back. That his ship was on the horizon. That his flag had been seen on an island nearby.
Every morning I'd run around the village, shouting to everyone that he was coming back. Everyone would tell me to stop, I was known as the village liar. It was a title I leaned into, if only to make my mother smile. Lying became a shield against reality. Against loss. I'd say to her "Mom! He's here! He's coming!" And each time, I would spot a slight curve on her pale face. The tear streaks couldn't deter the smile that came to her lips then. She was the most beautiful woman in the whole wide world.
And then she died.
I lost her.
Like I lost my dad.
I couldn't lose their memories though.
So every morning, I'd run outside the village, shouting from the top of my lungs that my father was coming back. That his ship was around the corner. That his flag was seen. This lie became my only way to remember her. So the village liar would lie still while my mother lay still.
The village chased me around a bit. I thought, at the time, that they hated me for telling lies. I can see now that a couple of them cried, hiding in corners, and that a few would smile with nostalgia when they turned their backs to me. They still loved my mother. She was loved by everyone. She was a painter, and had painted many of the village houses. But it was the person that the village loved. She was radiant, and so loving, that everyone on the island knew and loved her back. So when she married my dad, even if the villagers didn't like him, since she was so obviously in love and he was so obviously in love as well, they accepted him. And then he left. His boss told him he needed him, and that he'd come back.
So I lied and said he was coming back. Lie after lie. All I would do is lie.
On days when I couldn't find the motivation to go outside, the workshop became my refuge. I'd tinker hours on end on one thing or another. Most of the time, it was toy guns, wooden batons, slingshots, stuff like that. I liked to shoot stuff. I was good at it. The things I used to shoot got more and more sophisticated. And the distance I was hitting my targets grew and grew with each iteration. Each failure brought a new lesson. How this worked and why this didn't. I would find systems to optimize what worked, and workarounds and improvements to replace what didn't.
Other times, my mother's penchant for art would creep in, and I'd find myself painting and drawing. My imagination was unlimited. It was as if I had in my head a complete collection of works of arts.y Creatures, worlds, islands, the characters I dreamed would appear on the canvas as if they had existed somewhere. I associated the pictures with stories, so I would tell those to a few kids to entertain them while the adults 'worked'. I would tell tales of adventure, of pirates, of giants, of gods and monsters. I would create fictional characters, worlds and animals.
During the day, the stories were lighthearted. In the evening, they were more wonderful, to ease them into sleep. And while they'd go home to bed, I'd skulk around. I didn't want to go back to bed, since I didn't understand what was happening in my mind while asleep. The nightmares, the dreams only started to make sense when I met her.
The adults would congregate at the bar and talk, I'd hide nearby and listen to their gossip. On one of those evenings, the adults talked about a young girl who had lost her parents. She had just recently started getting sick. I heard her name, but it didn't stick. It felt like a memory caught between my dreams and reality, a fragment of something old and forgotten. Although she was apparently rich and had people to take care of her, they couldn't get her to come out of the shell she hid in since her parent's death.
I decided to pay her a visit and see if my stories would cheer her up the way they did my mother. I wasn't a doctor. I knew nothing of sickness and disease. But I knew how to lie and make other people feel better by listening to those lies. Stories was a medecine I could concoct. The fact that the kid was living in a gated mansion didn't stop me. The scary butler didn't scare me. What was a butler to the one who created monsters that scared the dark away? While walking around the walls, I saw a tree outside the house. One of its branches reached close enough to her window. When I saw her it all clicked. Brown opals for eyes. Golden silk for hair. Pale moonlight for skin. Her sickness only highlighted her beauty. But the fact that I recognized her settled it all for me.
With this realization, everything I had lived through—the dreams, the endless lies, the sorrow—shifted in meaning. I wasn't just some village kid with too much imagination and too little family left to care for. I was someone destined for greater things, for adventure and friendship beyond what I'd ever known. My heart pounded as I gazed at her sad face for the first time in this life. I'd make her smile, give her hope, and I wasn't going to stop there. I would protect her, inspire her, and one day leave this island for the life waiting on the horizon.
Kaya.
Syrup Village.
East Blue.
One Piece.
The dreams, the nightmares? They were memories from a past life.
My name in this new one?
Usopp.
Future captain of the Usopp Pirates.
Future Marksman of the Straw Hats.
The Sniper King.
God Usopp.
Aw shieee
Here we go agai-
I saw an edit. It woke my muse.
I don't trust myself to keep this one going.
please adopt this