Digimon Fan Fiction ❯ Memoirs of a Tortured Soul ❯ Letters Written in Blood ( Prologue )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Chibi Chocolate 
Daisuke makes a discovery...
Anime/Manga: Digimon Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Psychological / Supernatural | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 10.08.2002 | Updated On: 10.08.2002 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.2K | Visits: 206 | Status: Completed
Daisuke makes a discovery...
Anime/Manga: Digimon Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Psychological / Supernatural | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 10.08.2002 | Updated On: 10.08.2002 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.2K | Visits: 206 | Status: Completed
Author's Note: Yay! I was in the mood for some angstiness! This is going to be a very dark, hopefully lengthy account of a plot bunny that jumped through my window, stole my food and took up residence in my computer.
Warnings: DAIKEN, angst, sort-of-evil stuff...
Disclaimer: Digimon totally, entirely, wholly, completely and fully does NOT belong to me.
=#=#=
How can I be the only one in the world who knows the truth?
God, I'm starting to despise the wailing of sirens. These stupid paramedics and investigators and journalists are all just a bunch of bastards! They're so…unsympathetic; pretending that they give a damn. It's not like thy knew him, or understood him, or thought of him as more than a celebrity. At least now they'll have an interesting cover story for their stupid magazines. Everybody will know what happened to their beloved media icon. Maybe they'll even discuss it over lunch in their nice and perfect little worlds, not even for one second considering that he was just like everybody else; with fears and problems, and a real life. He was. Just yesterday, he was sitting on the grass just outside, on that faded red blanket, telling me about his dreams, about his future. He had so many layers to his personality. And now?
If I hadn't already blamed myself, I'd be holding the general Japanese population responsible.
Can you believe that I'm crying? That I've let myself cry? Nobody would believe that. Ha, what a joke, they'd say. But nobody will ever know. They will never be able to find me, to question me, to sympathize with me; not in this place. In our place. I won't let them see my sorrow, won't let my parents or my friends or especially Jun see my tears. They just wouldn't understand me; or him; or us. Nobody in this whole damned world could!
God, how is it that they're so ignorant? Didn't they see him crumbling? It was so bloody obvious, for anyone who even cared the slightest bit. It was dead obvious… I cared. I saw. But would anybody believe me? No. And now we're all paying the same damned price. Whoever said life wasn't fair hit the proverbial nail on the head. I'm crying again.
I'm also being unreasonable, some part of me says. I know that the others cared, too; never quite as much as I did, but nevertheless. My feelings of loneliness make it difficult to remember that, to believe it. I'm not going to waste my energy on it, either. I've got my hands full feeling angry at myself; and pitying him.
If only I had broken the silence. If only I'd asked him about the scars and the fatigue, about the dulling of his eyes, could I have perhaps redirected fate? I'll never know, and it's going to gnaw at me for the rest of my pathetic life. If I had only one wish, I'd chose for it to be me in that black bodybag, being wheeled away like some extra on a third-rate medical drama. But life doesn't work like that and I have to face facts: I'm a murderer.
Alright, maybe that's exaggerating. But I could have prevented his death, maybe. I could have stopped him slipping so far back down into darkness, if anyone had the ability to. If there was one person who deserved a second chance, who'd worked so hard and so long to set things right, it was him. God, it was him, and now it's too late! I shouldhave given him that opportunity. Wasn't it he that said I'd given him a new lease on life? He was always saying those kinds of things. Underneath that cool exterior, he was as soft as warm marshmallows. Not anymore. I know that this is all somehow my fault.
He hadn't hidden it particularly well: it was all reflected in his eyes. Available for the whole world, for me, to see. For us to become aware of what was going on… God, those beautiful eyes will never sparkle again! It's almost too unbearable to imagine. The world has lost such a kind, gentle, witty person. And I'm the only one who cares and, indeed, even knows the truth. It's a hard thing to live with.
There was a sudden scrabbling nearby, and the trap door swung open for the fleetest of seconds. It surprised me, feeling alone and isolated as I was. But it was not the police: a small shape stumbled over to me, lifting its eyes in silent plea. Eyes that were also filled with tears, like mine. Eyes that were piercingly indigo, like his. The creature sniffled, and no words were necessary between us. At least I wasn't the only one who had cared that much, I realized… Not the only one who still did care.
I lifted Wormmon into my lap, and we cried our silent tribute to Ichijouji Ken.
=#=#=
After everybody had left, after his parents had vanished, snivelling, after the entire world had departed to spread the latest rumour, I scrambled out of the hidden attic and landed on his dishevelled bed. The room was in a shambles. It seemed so wrong, so unfitting to the normally neat Ken.
It's not like he's ever going to come here again. It was a bitter thought, but it was one that I had to face. Ken was dead. And, now, I was dying a slow, guilt-ridden internal death, too.
My eyes traced the chaotically smudged black paint on the walls, shifted to the clumps of shredded paper, finally to the starkly visible pool of crimson blood. It looked violent, repulsive. Couldn't somebody have at least washed that? To hell with evidence! This was Ken's room, and it had no right to be so disorganized.
I placed Wormmon onto a pillow and quickly tracked down a bucket for water and some various detergents. Dumping the whole lot onto the stain, I began to scrub at it with unrestrained fury. My adrenaline was rushing at a frigtening pace, but I felt strangely relieved of tension as I continued my solitary task. In the midst of another violent swipe, my hand snagged a fragment of carpet and, strangely, it lifted away from the floor at my tug. Below it was a loose floorboard, and in the cavity underneath, a box. I was amazed and slightly frightened to find my name on the lid.
Inside was a wad of papers and envelopes. On top of it all lay a note:
Dear Daisuke,
I knew that you would find this: My final gift, of sorts, to you. These are my unsent letters, my questions that go, even now, unanswered. I adamantly hope that they might bring you clarification. You have my permission to read them, if you are not squeamish. But I warn you to be wary. These are my secrets, the record of my plunge into darkness. This is my life. My real life.
That was all.
=#=#=
Fun with cliffhangers! ^_~
Warnings: DAIKEN, angst, sort-of-evil stuff...
Disclaimer: Digimon totally, entirely, wholly, completely and fully does NOT belong to me.
=#=#=
Prelude: Letters Written In Blood
How can I be the only one in the world who knows the truth?
God, I'm starting to despise the wailing of sirens. These stupid paramedics and investigators and journalists are all just a bunch of bastards! They're so…unsympathetic; pretending that they give a damn. It's not like thy knew him, or understood him, or thought of him as more than a celebrity. At least now they'll have an interesting cover story for their stupid magazines. Everybody will know what happened to their beloved media icon. Maybe they'll even discuss it over lunch in their nice and perfect little worlds, not even for one second considering that he was just like everybody else; with fears and problems, and a real life. He was. Just yesterday, he was sitting on the grass just outside, on that faded red blanket, telling me about his dreams, about his future. He had so many layers to his personality. And now?
If I hadn't already blamed myself, I'd be holding the general Japanese population responsible.
Can you believe that I'm crying? That I've let myself cry? Nobody would believe that. Ha, what a joke, they'd say. But nobody will ever know. They will never be able to find me, to question me, to sympathize with me; not in this place. In our place. I won't let them see my sorrow, won't let my parents or my friends or especially Jun see my tears. They just wouldn't understand me; or him; or us. Nobody in this whole damned world could!
God, how is it that they're so ignorant? Didn't they see him crumbling? It was so bloody obvious, for anyone who even cared the slightest bit. It was dead obvious… I cared. I saw. But would anybody believe me? No. And now we're all paying the same damned price. Whoever said life wasn't fair hit the proverbial nail on the head. I'm crying again.
I'm also being unreasonable, some part of me says. I know that the others cared, too; never quite as much as I did, but nevertheless. My feelings of loneliness make it difficult to remember that, to believe it. I'm not going to waste my energy on it, either. I've got my hands full feeling angry at myself; and pitying him.
If only I had broken the silence. If only I'd asked him about the scars and the fatigue, about the dulling of his eyes, could I have perhaps redirected fate? I'll never know, and it's going to gnaw at me for the rest of my pathetic life. If I had only one wish, I'd chose for it to be me in that black bodybag, being wheeled away like some extra on a third-rate medical drama. But life doesn't work like that and I have to face facts: I'm a murderer.
Alright, maybe that's exaggerating. But I could have prevented his death, maybe. I could have stopped him slipping so far back down into darkness, if anyone had the ability to. If there was one person who deserved a second chance, who'd worked so hard and so long to set things right, it was him. God, it was him, and now it's too late! I shouldhave given him that opportunity. Wasn't it he that said I'd given him a new lease on life? He was always saying those kinds of things. Underneath that cool exterior, he was as soft as warm marshmallows. Not anymore. I know that this is all somehow my fault.
He hadn't hidden it particularly well: it was all reflected in his eyes. Available for the whole world, for me, to see. For us to become aware of what was going on… God, those beautiful eyes will never sparkle again! It's almost too unbearable to imagine. The world has lost such a kind, gentle, witty person. And I'm the only one who cares and, indeed, even knows the truth. It's a hard thing to live with.
There was a sudden scrabbling nearby, and the trap door swung open for the fleetest of seconds. It surprised me, feeling alone and isolated as I was. But it was not the police: a small shape stumbled over to me, lifting its eyes in silent plea. Eyes that were also filled with tears, like mine. Eyes that were piercingly indigo, like his. The creature sniffled, and no words were necessary between us. At least I wasn't the only one who had cared that much, I realized… Not the only one who still did care.
I lifted Wormmon into my lap, and we cried our silent tribute to Ichijouji Ken.
=#=#=
After everybody had left, after his parents had vanished, snivelling, after the entire world had departed to spread the latest rumour, I scrambled out of the hidden attic and landed on his dishevelled bed. The room was in a shambles. It seemed so wrong, so unfitting to the normally neat Ken.
It's not like he's ever going to come here again. It was a bitter thought, but it was one that I had to face. Ken was dead. And, now, I was dying a slow, guilt-ridden internal death, too.
My eyes traced the chaotically smudged black paint on the walls, shifted to the clumps of shredded paper, finally to the starkly visible pool of crimson blood. It looked violent, repulsive. Couldn't somebody have at least washed that? To hell with evidence! This was Ken's room, and it had no right to be so disorganized.
I placed Wormmon onto a pillow and quickly tracked down a bucket for water and some various detergents. Dumping the whole lot onto the stain, I began to scrub at it with unrestrained fury. My adrenaline was rushing at a frigtening pace, but I felt strangely relieved of tension as I continued my solitary task. In the midst of another violent swipe, my hand snagged a fragment of carpet and, strangely, it lifted away from the floor at my tug. Below it was a loose floorboard, and in the cavity underneath, a box. I was amazed and slightly frightened to find my name on the lid.
Inside was a wad of papers and envelopes. On top of it all lay a note:
Dear Daisuke,
I knew that you would find this: My final gift, of sorts, to you. These are my unsent letters, my questions that go, even now, unanswered. I adamantly hope that they might bring you clarification. You have my permission to read them, if you are not squeamish. But I warn you to be wary. These are my secrets, the record of my plunge into darkness. This is my life. My real life.
That was all.
=#=#=
Fun with cliffhangers! ^_~