Ayashi No Ceres Fan Fiction ❯ Rebirth ❯ Chapter 3
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Lina Inverse 
Anime/Manga: Ayashi No Ceres Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Mystery / Psychological / Angst | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 11.17.2003 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.0K | Visits: 225 | Status: Completed
Anime/Manga: Ayashi No Ceres Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Mystery / Psychological / Angst | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 11.17.2003 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.0K | Visits: 225 | Status: Completed
"You're joking, right? Right?!" I'm practically screaming at Alec.
"No." His expression remains somber. "I'm sorry."
It takes all the control I have to stop myself from beating the shit out of him. "Damn it! My mom was a fucking whore and my dad was probably some pervert who paid for her sick little ass that only saw her once!" And I'm even worse.
"Tooya..." Alec's words fail to do anything but snap me back to reality- a reality in which everyone in the ice cream parlor is staring at me, wide-mouthed. Shit. I didn't even realize that I was telling the world that I'm a fucking bastard.
I slam a fist into my ice cream cone, splattering it over the table. Without a word, I turn around and stomp off.
"She was a prostitute." The words echo in my head, growing louder and louder, until Alec's voice screams it to me in my head. "SHE WAS A PROSTITUTE!!!!!!"
She... was... Was... Not is... My mom... Dead?
I race back to the ice cream parlor and find Alec wiping up the mess I made all over the table. "Is my mom dead?" I yell at him.
Alec nods silently. I turn around and leave, slowly. I plod heavily, slowly, the entire way back to my dormitory, where I lie in my bed and cry.
* * * * *
The clock reads five fifteen A.M. I must've fallen asleep. What was I thinking about, anyway?
Right. My mom was a fucking prostitute. And now she's dead.
And I feel like shit. I walk into the bathroom, throw off my clothes, and turn the shower on full blast.
All right- let's get this straight in my mind. I have a dead whore for a mom. I imagine her appearance. Full red lips, a soft, gently sloping nose, silky light-brown wisps of hair. Her mouth opens, and she says, "I put food on the table doing what I do, and that's all that matters. It's none of your fucking business what I do at night." Piercing eyes of brown- so piercing that they're almost yellow- glare at me from below thick bright blue eyeshadow and carefully plucked eyebrows, slanted downwards in rage. Her forehead wrinkles at the nose. I tremble involuntarily. Then the open hand, with rings on each finger, descends toward my face.
And then it stops. Right. My mom is dead. She can't hit me now.
Wait. So my mom was a whore, she's dead, AND she slapped me. Shit, my childhood must have sucked. No wonder I turned out to be a rapist. My mind returns to those pamphlets I read on domestic violence.
Damn it, mom. It's your fault Aya was raped. She's such a good girl, and then you go and fucking rape her! I could've been a good kid. If you hadn't beat me then fucking died, I'd be successful. I'd bring you out of prostitution. Hell, that's probably why I went to college in the first place. So I could get your sorry ass out of your dirty business. So you could go around telling people how your bastard son gave you a life you didn't deserve.
You sicken me.
Bitch.
The water runs cold. How long have I been in the shower? I shut off the water and slowly dry myself, letting myself reflect.
My mother really was very beautiful. She must have made a great prostitute. Ugh. What am I thinking, great prostitute? It's as if I'm one of those sick perverts who paid her ass. Successful prostitute. She was of an average height, thin but not scrawny, and anything but flat.
Her face, though overly made-up, was of perfect shape and complexion. Pale, smooth skin, covered in foundation and blush, gently formed her small, delicate nose and chin and tapered into a triangular chin. Thin eyebrows topped heavy purple eyeshadow, and black eyeliner accented her soft eyes.
My mother's looks were deceiving, to say the least. At first glance, you'd think she was a model, not a prostitute. Why she wasn't, I'll never know. Then you'd expect her to be a kind parent- possibly a good one, but more likely one who overemphasized her childrens' physical appearance- but nevertheless, one who would never dream of hitting her own son.
Then I think to myself, how do I know what she looks like in such detail? I swear, I've seen her before. I laugh to myself. She's my fucking mother; of course I've seen her before! What I meant was I swear I've seen her since I lost my memories. But that can't be possible! She died before I lost them...
For some reason, my mother reminds me a bit of Aya. They do look a bit alike, but Aya's youthful features: big blue eyes, laughing smile, blond hair, and a slight tan contrast those of my mother. Aya's painting actually looks more like my mother than Aya herself does, purple hair and all.
The face of the lady in Aya's painting looks exactly like my mother's face. Every feature, from her forehead to her chin, matched perfectly.
It couldn't be all a coincidence. Why did Aya paint my mother? Did she know about my past all along? Or maybe she only knew what my mother looked like, and nothing else. But Aya didn't know me until this year... It couldn't be. Perhaps Aya just saw my mother one day, and thought she looked like an angel and decided to paint her?
I think back, trying to remember if I'd ever seen Aya in my past. Did she and my mother have a connection?
"No." His expression remains somber. "I'm sorry."
It takes all the control I have to stop myself from beating the shit out of him. "Damn it! My mom was a fucking whore and my dad was probably some pervert who paid for her sick little ass that only saw her once!" And I'm even worse.
"Tooya..." Alec's words fail to do anything but snap me back to reality- a reality in which everyone in the ice cream parlor is staring at me, wide-mouthed. Shit. I didn't even realize that I was telling the world that I'm a fucking bastard.
I slam a fist into my ice cream cone, splattering it over the table. Without a word, I turn around and stomp off.
"She was a prostitute." The words echo in my head, growing louder and louder, until Alec's voice screams it to me in my head. "SHE WAS A PROSTITUTE!!!!!!"
She... was... Was... Not is... My mom... Dead?
I race back to the ice cream parlor and find Alec wiping up the mess I made all over the table. "Is my mom dead?" I yell at him.
Alec nods silently. I turn around and leave, slowly. I plod heavily, slowly, the entire way back to my dormitory, where I lie in my bed and cry.
* * * * *
The clock reads five fifteen A.M. I must've fallen asleep. What was I thinking about, anyway?
Right. My mom was a fucking prostitute. And now she's dead.
And I feel like shit. I walk into the bathroom, throw off my clothes, and turn the shower on full blast.
All right- let's get this straight in my mind. I have a dead whore for a mom. I imagine her appearance. Full red lips, a soft, gently sloping nose, silky light-brown wisps of hair. Her mouth opens, and she says, "I put food on the table doing what I do, and that's all that matters. It's none of your fucking business what I do at night." Piercing eyes of brown- so piercing that they're almost yellow- glare at me from below thick bright blue eyeshadow and carefully plucked eyebrows, slanted downwards in rage. Her forehead wrinkles at the nose. I tremble involuntarily. Then the open hand, with rings on each finger, descends toward my face.
And then it stops. Right. My mom is dead. She can't hit me now.
Wait. So my mom was a whore, she's dead, AND she slapped me. Shit, my childhood must have sucked. No wonder I turned out to be a rapist. My mind returns to those pamphlets I read on domestic violence.
Damn it, mom. It's your fault Aya was raped. She's such a good girl, and then you go and fucking rape her! I could've been a good kid. If you hadn't beat me then fucking died, I'd be successful. I'd bring you out of prostitution. Hell, that's probably why I went to college in the first place. So I could get your sorry ass out of your dirty business. So you could go around telling people how your bastard son gave you a life you didn't deserve.
You sicken me.
Bitch.
The water runs cold. How long have I been in the shower? I shut off the water and slowly dry myself, letting myself reflect.
My mother really was very beautiful. She must have made a great prostitute. Ugh. What am I thinking, great prostitute? It's as if I'm one of those sick perverts who paid her ass. Successful prostitute. She was of an average height, thin but not scrawny, and anything but flat.
Her face, though overly made-up, was of perfect shape and complexion. Pale, smooth skin, covered in foundation and blush, gently formed her small, delicate nose and chin and tapered into a triangular chin. Thin eyebrows topped heavy purple eyeshadow, and black eyeliner accented her soft eyes.
My mother's looks were deceiving, to say the least. At first glance, you'd think she was a model, not a prostitute. Why she wasn't, I'll never know. Then you'd expect her to be a kind parent- possibly a good one, but more likely one who overemphasized her childrens' physical appearance- but nevertheless, one who would never dream of hitting her own son.
Then I think to myself, how do I know what she looks like in such detail? I swear, I've seen her before. I laugh to myself. She's my fucking mother; of course I've seen her before! What I meant was I swear I've seen her since I lost my memories. But that can't be possible! She died before I lost them...
For some reason, my mother reminds me a bit of Aya. They do look a bit alike, but Aya's youthful features: big blue eyes, laughing smile, blond hair, and a slight tan contrast those of my mother. Aya's painting actually looks more like my mother than Aya herself does, purple hair and all.
The face of the lady in Aya's painting looks exactly like my mother's face. Every feature, from her forehead to her chin, matched perfectly.
It couldn't be all a coincidence. Why did Aya paint my mother? Did she know about my past all along? Or maybe she only knew what my mother looked like, and nothing else. But Aya didn't know me until this year... It couldn't be. Perhaps Aya just saw my mother one day, and thought she looked like an angel and decided to paint her?
I think back, trying to remember if I'd ever seen Aya in my past. Did she and my mother have a connection?