The Colour Purple Chapter 25: Illusions, a king of fighters fanfic

The Colour Purple... The King of Fighters '95

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This (chapter) fanfiction was originally written circa: [XX.96] (Thank you)

"Which Character are you?"

"There is no antidote..." The man with the Bandanna says to me.

{It.. it won't wash the blood away?} I say in my mind, but by the time it reaches my mouth, it is indistinguishable...

"Hnnn. When there is no love to act as antidote for what ails your soul, there can only be revenge, THEN there will be answers..." Said the capped man. "Such is the way of men."

It is indistinguishable – AND IT IS TIMELESS.

Even if 17 years do pass…

Chapter 25: Illusions

The dreams you covet and take pride in calling your own are illusions, implanted by society to make you do as they please. From the very beginning...

...

What do you do when you finally come to the honest realization that your thoughts are not your own and the life you've been living is a large conspiracy brought out by some cynical god? What of the man made gods who pawn with everything they rule over for the sake of peace, patriotism and justice?

What of the bored man who has nothing to do with his life. Seeking his own adventure, and he who has been given too much?

Satisfaction.

Control.

God.

None of which makes any sense, because in this town, they have no definite meaning.

...

Look, it's a nice white house. With a neat fence and evenly cut green lawn. There's a paperboy, throwing the Sunday edition on my front porch. What a good shot he is, the Sunday edition twirls so smoothly and lands just at the edge of my porch. The neighbours are nice too. Look, it's Flanders, the nice Christian next-door. "Yippee dipply doolely!" He would say, as cheerful as an angel. What a lovely town.

Then I look behind me and I see a tall despicable building.. but I like it anyway. It's a seedy looking apartment tower in the middle of town. I hear a gunshot somewhere in a back alley, screams from the darkness, a place that would make even saints ever fearful. However, I still love this town. Why? I don't know.

Is that a cow's moo I hear? I turn around and it is just a pack of stray dogs fighting over some scraps, but when I return to that apartment tower, I see endless fields. Green. Then in a flash, I hear the sounds of helicopters beating. The strain on my eyes is intense, but I endure with no sign of hardship anyway. Before I realize it, I have a torch in my hand, and I can't stop myself from throwing it away, as far away from me as I can. The wooden stump twirls in the air, getting farther and farther away from me into the grassy field, then it falls down, the flames catching onto the green meadow. The flames spread insanely fast, and before I could react, the fire has found it's way back to me. The fire. It was something beyond my control, and all the destruction I have caused has come back to me.

I wish hard for it to stop, probably for concern for the meadow, but I know deep inside that it is selfishly for my own well being. I wish for water. A pail of water materializes in my hand, but before I could douse the flames, my hands are cut off. I cannot do anything to save myself. An insane laughter ensues.

The beating of drums comes again.. harder and faster.. gunshots echoing from everywhere, and I don't cover my eyes when I see men dying. It has become sick. How I can stand such things without going insane. Valor, I said to myself.. but when the bodies were shipped home.. and they hardly were.. most of the time, they were incinerated on the spot.. When they came home... they were forgotten, forcibly forgotten even.

I can never clean the blood I see on my hands. I can't do anything. Do you know why? Because I never had any say in anything I did.

Look, it's that house again.. and someone is coming out of the white house. It's my darling Sandra, come to greet me. "I have come home." I say, and she is full of joy. I drop my bag, take off my jacket, throwing away the stress I had to endure to survive, I take it off, throw it on my bag, and leave anything and everything that has to do with work, I want to get rid of it, leave it forever, until I sleep and wake up to it the following day.. To be a slave once again, but now, I don't want to be part of the outside world, so full of stress and hate; Because at home, I know that I can have a little peace of mind. I want to leave it all behind, so I do for the meantime, and I would rather not think about the time when I would have to pick that bag up again. I need love to survive, because I am selfish, and my work has no love to offer me. All my work does is suck away all the love I can hope to give. Sandra is beautiful, and I would never leave her for the world. She smells of dinner, but I don't mind, I am full of sweat from work, but she doesn't care. I love her and she loves me.

By the door, is my pride and joy. My daughter Clara is leaning by the door, with a little enigmatic smile on her face. It is an expression caught between a smile and a frown. She is probably the most mature little girl I have ever known. She comes to me slowly, with her rag doll clipped in her arms. "Dad, you're home." Clara says to me. She jumps up and takes me by the neck and I lift her up, laugh out loud and smile. Flanders is out watering his rose garden. He called out his family to say hi to me. How nice. "So, are we going to go out? I got the lead in the school play." I have no words but a sincere congratulations.. A plain gesture from me, a hug at most, and Clara doesn't say much. She doesn't even laugh or cry or do any of those sweet things, but I know deep down inside, she loves me too.

My daughter, Clara is the most mature little girl I have ever seen in my entire life. Standing there with her expression caught between a smile and a frown. Tough as hell, and she knows it. As a man, I would be proud to have a daughter like her, but as a father, I don't want her to be this way. I want her to be cheerful, emotional, and ready to shower me with affection at any given moment. Maybe it was partly my fault. With my work. I had to move them a lot from town to town, and she had to cope with that. She had to survive, be strong because she was always 'the new girl at school'. I would think that she isn't the 'tramp' type 'new girl' at school who'd go flirting with anyone to get security. No, she's MY daughter. She won't sell out. I love her.

When I don't come home from work, I know that she will be okay. I know that she will not get sad. I know she will not cry, or lock herself in her room, or refuse to eat, or have a fit. I know because she is the most mature girl I have ever seen. I would hope she cares for me when I do not come home. I am selfish though. I want all this love, but I can't help it. I never think about my family's feelings, all I care about is me, me and me! So I try to talk to her.. ask her how she feels.. and she says, "she understands". She, Clara probably understands more than my wife does. Maybe that is why I love my wife more, because I am selfish, because I know that I can turn her on with the switch on her back and she will shower me with love, but it is harder with Clara, I never really know what she's thinking.

I do know though, that one day when that letter comes... It is not a fancy letter. It is in a plain white envelope with no logos or return address, or distinctive markings. It is going to say:

'Dear PEOPLE WE DON'T CARE ABOUT,

We are sorry to inform YOU STUPID FOOLS, that THE MORON YOU CALL A HUSBAND AND A FATHER, has laid down his life for the cause he seeks to protect in our organization, SO HE'S FUCKING DEAD! He died honourably at SO AND SO BLOODY DATE AND TIME... etc. etc. etc. blah blah blah...'

Then all the legal junk and all, as well as how they will GIVE MY FAMILY A FUCKING HARD TIME to get my pension and all THAT CRAP.

BUT, I do know that Clara will shed no tears, because she understands what I have been chosen to do and have to go through. She understands and accepts it. Between us, we know that I am not trying to be selfish. I don't want her to hate me. For one brief moment though, I would pay anything to see what would go in her mind if it did happen, IF she saw and read THAT LETTER. I just want her to cry for me. I never wanted to hurt her, but I am selfish. I am human and I am selfish.. and I want her to cry for me. So I know that at least for one brief moment, I was a real person, that someone cared for me. I don't want to die alone. I want to know that I exist and I want to see her pain and her eternal sadness when she cries and when I die. I don't want to die alone.

Ironically, I DO know what THIS LETTER is doing in my hand, addressed to myself and talking about my dead family.

I love my wife, Sandra.

I love my daughter, Clara.

I don't know what is truth and fiction anymore. Moreover, I am beginning to not give a damn anymore.. because I can never enjoy the dreams or hate the nightmares.. Regardless they are both trapped in my mind. I am confused.

...

"Sir." This nurse from behind me calls out as she helps me to my wheelchair. "It's time to go to the cemetery."

{Wait, I have to wash my hands.} I yell out in my mind, but the words refuse to form in my mouth. {I have to get the blood off.}

...

"Oh, this is a beautiful picture. Say HUBBA BUBBA CHIS SNAX!" Flanders grins as he aims the camera to SHOOT.

The trigger goes out and then I see another fly fall... It was a subordinate of mine, he was a radical, he was free at heart, and so full of the fire.. he was free, but because of this he became irresponsible, and a companion got killed. Only the most sincere of men would give a fuck about their team, and I am all to blame, because I was lacking...

{WASH THIS GODDAMN BLOOD!}

I smile, and sling my left arm over my aproned wife's shoulder. With my right hand, I touch Clara's shoulder too in front of me. Clara does her enigmatic smile, and hugs her rag doll. I can never understand her. I don't need a woman in a child's body right now. I don't want an understanding little girl. I want a daughter.

...

{Ggg..eeet.. the blood away.. wash it away..} My mind erratically says, and I stutter some gibberish as the nurse tries to calm me down, and the syringe appears in her hands.

My mind breaks, it shatters like a mirror, and I see flashes. Of the apartment tower, of the field, of the screams of dying men, of some grinning Santa Claus. I see myself killing Flanders, and filing papers on my desk. I see myself drinking beer with my subordinates. Fires. The BLOOD. Then, it calms down until I can hardly hear the sounds of the cows' moos. Then I notice that nice white house I love. No matter how ugly your house may look, you still like it cause it is your safe haven. The white house, with the neat fence, the cut lawn, and then a last flash as the shutter of Flanders' camera moves in a twinkling. Then that faded picture materializes in my hand.

That picture. Of me. Of Sandra. Of Clara. Of my family. We were together – we were once upon a time – we were once happy together… the colours were bleached a faded shade to me.

{Ttthhee.. the blood... It's going away. The picture in my hand is clearing the blood.} I say in my mind. This immaculate picture won't be stained with my bloody hands. I can only hope it is real, the love.. but if the love is real, so is the horror.

...

Look. It's the grassy field. I know it is real. Cause I just know. I have my army fatigues on right now.. the pants anyway, and on top of it I have my hospital drabs. I also have bandages on my arms. The nurse is pushing me on my wheelchair. I am going towards the rock garden. The lovely peaceful cemetery.

...

"Hiedern, we have come to take you home, sir." A man from the side says. He has nice jet black permed hair, and has a bandanna on, and next to him is another with a blue hat and shades. Men of valor, of war.

"Let's go home, sir."

...

Epilogue:

The incessant infantile gurgles and gibberish continue to come out of my mouth, so I try to reach out to them... {HELP ME!} but the words refuse to form. I reach out and try to hug the man with the bandanna, I reach for his waist and almost fall from my wheelchair. He catches me, steadies me, and shows me that I am crumpling the picture in my hand. I cry and calm myself.

"There is no antidote..." The man with the Bandanna says to me.

{It.. it won't wash the blood away?} I say in my mind, but by the time it reaches my mouth, it is indistinguishable...

"Hnnn. When there is no love to act as antidote for what ails your soul, there can only be revenge, THEN there will be answers..." Said the capped man. "Such is the way of a man."

Ralf, I think that's his name.. He takes my wheelchair and pushes me away. Clark follows, but I hear some screams... It is my nurse, I think she's yelling something about WHY my men are taking me away.. For sure she'll call 'the boys' I don't want to be strapped down... I don't want to be beaten by their men... So I look to Ralf and Clark, and with my eyes, I ask them to.. help me...

"H..hh...eel..pp.." I think I was able to say.

Ralf had no answer, he just dropped the duffel bag he had slung over his shoulder. The familiar sound of steel...

"Hey.. Come on!" Clark says with a familiar ring..

...

YOU DON'T LIVE THERE ANYMORE -ebtg