Night before my Geometry Honors final, and what am I doing?
Writing Quatre drabble of course.
(sweatdrop)
-0.04-
Black.
White.
Shoot them.
Okay begin
Blur.
Screams.
These are my memories.
This is what I see at night.
This is all I see at night.
These are my dreams.
There is no peace in the life of soldier, much less that of a Gundam pilot.
I scream in silence. The others need their sleep, and a sound from me would wake any and all of them. They learned the technique of solitary mourning, screaming, fearing, running, long ago. It is a recent acquisition for me.
I am …
I am no murderer.
I am a soldier. That does not make me a killer.
It was not my choice. At that time, I had no choice. Doctor gave me one, but what could I do? Had the others been given a choice, what would they have done? How can one say, 'I choose not to protect my people, my home'?
Soldiers are not given choices. We follow and act like mindless drones, with one goal to obtain and one method to obtain it.
It is all beautifully, terribly simple.
Yet nothing is clear-cut, especially not in our world, where friends are enemies and enemies are enemies and no one can be trusted, even those you love and those you desperately want to. We trust none, not even each other, when we five may be all we will ever have, the closest thing to family our comrades-in-arms in this war, something pointless and directionless now.
We may grasp for each other in fear, in happiness, in lust, but never will we give up our trust.
It is not sad. It is a simple fact, stated emotionlessly:
I have blonde hair and blue eyes.
Gundam pilots trust no one.
My father is dead.
It is, in the midst of a madly confusing war, all wondrously simple.
You are all you have. Give what you will, give your blood tears sweat laughter sex to whomever you will, but depend upon none but yourself.
It is …
Because …
They die. Everyone dies. In a world where you can be talking one second and choking in the airless expanse of velvet dark space, everyone can and does die.
I …
Am a murderer.
I killed a comrade, a fellow soldier. Or at least I attempted to. It doesn't matter if I succeeded or no; the fact that I tried is convicting enough.
I should hate it, should shun forever and ever (and amen) that accursed system that I can't handle, that I'm too weak to use.
Yet in that constricting helmet, with digits flashing before you and your electronically and chemically enhanced brain interpreting each signal instantaneously, everything is black or white.
There is no gray, no confusion, just blessed them and me and the only obstacle you have is them, and the only way to get through your obstacles is aim shoot turn shoot kill shoot laugh laugh laugh laugh …
Black.
White.
Nothing is so convenient, so straightforward, for me, in my world as our group's diplomat, strategist, sometimes even goddamned public relations officer. Go figure we'd all just think that since I have a high-class background I can deal with idiotic inexperienced mindless drones of public officials.
Black.
White.
Them.
Us.
Kill them and we live.
Let them live and we die.
Simple.
Beautiful.
At one point I think I heard angels singing me to death
One day, I think, I will snap. I think I will break and go insane, and laugh and laugh that shrill helpless laugh, lugubrious and pathetic, and build my own ZERO, and ride it out into space where I won't kill anyone again, and open fire on the floating wreckages in space.
One day, I think, I will take out some machine with a deadly weapon and fire on innocents, and kill random innocent people, and take my revenge for my pain and their pain and Heero's pain and Wufei and Duo and Trowa's pain that they didn't deserve, didn't want, didn't need, got, and won't avenge.
And in the end they will be the ones, ironically enough, to have to subdue me, to shoot things – tranquilizers or bullets? I wonder, will Trowa let them use bullets on me? – at me until I crumple and they can move in and get me.
Duo has good aim. Trowa is better.
I wonder, what will Trowa's face be like, one day, when I snap and kill everyone?
Shall I blow up Earth as a final touch, as a final au revoir to the colonies, and for good measure take out every Winner satellite in the known world, au revoir, a demain, passer une bonne vie, je me souviens –
And will Trowa looked shocked?
Or will he wear that clown face forever, to hide the Trowa that he has finally broken down enough to show me? Why did I try? Why did I put in all that effort and time to make Trowa become himself? I love him, I think; he loves me; in the end it doesn't matter, in the end no matter how we love each other it closes:
Black.
White.
Shoot them.
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Wow. Okay. May that be a warning to all: never write anything while listening to Hakkai no Theme (from Saiyuki). It makes for depression … obsession … and not studying for your Geometry final that's the next day.
Sayonara – good bye (Japanese)
Au revoir – good bye (French)
A demain – till tomorrow (French)
Passer une bonne vie – have a good life (French – at least I think I wrote it correctly)
Je me souviens – I remember (French – Q knows a lotta French, ne?)
Ummmmm….
In case you didn't figure it out, it's Quatre. I think I made it pretty obvious …
So, anyhoo, what'd you think? REVIEW please! This was more of an experiment in style than anything else. A Quatre drabble; something I'd been dying to write for the longest time and didn't get around to. Funny, I never thought it'd be an angst … ah well.
REVIEW!!! Domo arigato!
Lokogato