Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ My Dinner With Ghosts ❯ My Dinner With Ghosts ( Chapter 1 )

My Dinner With Ghosts

by cozzybob

 

Disclaimer: If it's recognizable at all, the universe of Gundam Wing and it's characters belong to Sunrise and other shareholders. Not me. I did not make any money borrowing them and do not plan to do so in the future. This, like all other fanfiction, was written for sheer pleasure alone. Plot, if it deserves the name, belongs to me.

 

Rated: G

 

Pair: none

 

Warning: spoilers for EW, sap, angst, fluff, supernatural, really odd

 

Note: For Elemental, darling. Me loves her, she rules and I want the whole world to know it. Well... that and I promised her a Cozzy-style Mariemeia fic after her comment on Armageddon about my very-much questionable sanity. Hee. Hope you like. I was actually planning on writing you a fic for a long while now, and this one just sorta came to me... it's my first-ever Mariemeia POV. Enjoy. *glomp*

 

 

 

I like to dine with ghosts every night, around eight or so, depending on how prompt my cook is with the food that I order. I set out a plate at each empty chair, a glass to the right, a napkin to the left with a knife, fork and spoon to eat with. I know it's not a good idea to give ghosts utensils that could do you bodily harm, but I don't fear the ghosts, and simply being me, I'm more than capable of handling it. If I could take over the world and strike terror into the hearts of man at eight years old, surely I can handle a ghost or two, now? I mean, really. It's not that big of a deal. They're already dead.

 

I don't live in a big house, but being that I can't cook and I hate take out (I get stares when I tell them my name), I've brought my own personal chef to serve me. It's probably something my father would do, now that I really think about it. They used to say Lady would prepare rose baths for him during the war, at the peak of battle. Hm. I could ask him tonight. He'll come, he likes to sit at the seat directly across from me at the other side of the table, where he can see me the best and study me as he never got the chance to do during life.

 

He never says anything, never speaks, he just likes to stare at me and eat his meal in companionable silence. Sometimes he'll glare at Grandfather or smile at my mother, but most of the time he just keeps to himself, distant and yet always there, always a pressure in my existence. I'll be honest--I don't love my father, I never had the chance to love him. I don't even respect him... after all, how can you respect a man that created you and then abandoned you? I mean, surely he had to know. He had to have known... His name was the very thing that made the world shudder in recollection, how could he have not known about his own daughter?

 

But I know. I know, I'm not an idiot, I never was, and I know. My Grandfather, bless his damned soul, was probably responsible for that. Grandfather sits at the seat to my left, always jabbing me with lessons, always telling me how to eat, when to eat, what food I should eat, how I should speak, and what I should speak about. He always tells me I don't look good enough, I'm not smart enough, I'm not cute enough, let's work on that. Yes, and then he says, "I can teach you many things, Mariemeia, just listen and learn and you will own the world someday."

 

He never even asked me if I wanted the world. It was always assumption with him. Always one forced path, a future that I could not control, and thus, had no desire to. I was too young to know that I could change my fate, and I embraced it with ignorance. But he never asked me. He never considered that maybe Marie wouldn't want the world. Maybe she wanted a little love instead?

 

My father doesn't like Grandfather. He hates Grandfather, actually. I know my father doesn't hate many people, Lady always told me that, that my father, despite his sins, was not a bad man. He didn't hate people, in fact he had the reputation of loving people--and humanity in general--with a passion that was never completely understood. For my father to hate--really hate--my Grandfather, means something, something I don't completely understand, and probably never will. I don't understand why he hates him, which reason my father had chosen for this passion. Does he hate my Grandfather because of what he did in life or is it because my Grandfather stole his daughter away, to be raised without him? Was it both? My father had once been a ruling force in this world, and that is why I became what I did on that fateful Christmas Eve little over ten years ago. My Grandfather had wanted the same thing, didn't he? Weren't they kindred spirits?

 

Perhaps I am on the wrong side of the fence to debate this thought. I have only known my Grandfather through the lies that he fed to me, and I only know that they were lies because of what Lady has taught me since then, in contradiction. When I made myself known that lost hour on Christmas Eve, I didn't do it out of love for my father, I did it out of lust for the power my Grandfather drove into me. I did it because I wanted to, I did it because I thought it was right. Even now, like I said, I don't love my father. I don't know if I respect him. But I know, at least a little bit, that what Grandfather said about him and what Lady Une said about him, were both right and both wrong in their own odd ways.

 

My final guest tonight and every night past is always my mother, who sits at my right side, a silent presence like my father who only gives words when the time is right; a salve for the burns, a lotion for rough, tired hands. She speaks when Grandfather begins to bother me, and sometimes even frighten me. In her own way, she combats Grandfather and is not afraid of him (anymore), willing to defend her daughter into oblivion. My Grandfather doesn't like my mother, in fact, I think he almost hates her as much as he hates my father. But he does have a soft spot for her, I'm sure. I know it, sometimes, on rare occasions. He never strikes her, never hurts her unless he feels that he has no other choice. He cares about her because she is his daughter, and Grandfather always did care about his family a great deal. That's why he wanted to rule the world, in fact. He wanted it safe for his family, wanted it safe for them all to exist. There was power and greed, sure, but in the end, it was also about love. He wanted to protect them from the cruelties of colony life in the old days. He'd witnessed it, it hurt him, and so he got his revenge in the best way that he knew how. The history books always portray Grandfather in a negative manner, but honestly... I don't know. He wasn't a bad man either.

 

He was just confused. Like all of us, I think. I really don't know anymore, though.

 

But anyway, it's time for my dinner. Greg, the cook, comes in and sets the meal down--he's made some odd concoction with rice, meat and stew, stirred in a pot and ready to serve. He leaves, knowing that I will do the serving personally, because it is indeed a personal affair, and when he vanishes into the kitchen to clean up, I take the ladle into my hand and spill a good amount into each plate, making sure that every guest has the amount that they always desire. I know my guests very well, now--my Grandfather likes the largest helping I can manage, his plate overloaded with food, and my father likes a fair amount, only taking what he feels his stomach can handle, while my mother likes the least amount, taking only what she feels is well for her strict and unreasonable diet. I take the same amount as my father, unsure as to whether I do it in adoration or pure coincidence. There's always something in these things, always a line to read between, and someday I'll become a psychologist just so that I can understand it. I don't trust the words someone else will speak to me, after all, I mean, how I can trust my mind and life to another person when the entire world is convinced that my first eight years were nothing but lie after lie and twist after twist until I was nothing more than a personal puppet with the IQ of Satan? No, someday I'm going to study it, I'm going to study everything, and then I will know for myself what really, truly happened.

 

I sigh with that thought, forcing serenity into my world as the ghosts begin to make their presence in the room. They never really leave me, always at my side, but they only show themselves when we eat at night; it's a custom for them, something they're used to by now, and being a ghost, they could never handle it otherwise. It's a pain really, I can't go out at night, I can't share dinner with friends (not that I have any), I can't do so many things at this hour, this time... but then, I don't care. How can I care when my father's face reveals before me, my mother at one side, my Grandfather at the other, watching me and loving me and considering me before sitting down to eat? As if we were family. As if this was normal. It may not be perfect, no, but it's my family, dead or alive, and they stay with me always. I cherish that.

 

So I nod to each of them, tell them about my day, how much I've learned, the people I've met, my troubles, my fears, my doubts and my secrets, in hope that they will give me their advice. I cherish them, in their own ways. I miss them dearly, no matter what the world says about me. Sometimes I want them back, and I cry at night, wishing it so.

 

But still, they're here now, and they talk to me. I know you think I'm being metaphorical or funny or that I've finally broken, finally cracked, but I do eat my dinner with ghosts, and Greg will tell you that the plates are always empty when they reach the kitchen. Greg has even seen them and asked me about my guests, and I tell them that they're family come over for dinner, and when he remarks that he didn't hear the door open, I say that they're very quiet people. He nods and says that he never hears them enter while in the kitchen and never hears them leave when he comes out to check on them after dinner is over. He says it's odd, but nice, and that he is happy that I could have company, because I always seem like such a lonesome girl. I just smile and tell him that I am a lonesome girl, always will be if I continue to spend my dinner with three lonely ghosts.

 

He laughs, thinks I'm kidding, which I guess, for insanity's sake, I might be. But Greg thinks they're real, he believes they're alive because he's spoken to my Grandfather, to my mother, and they seem so physical to him. He has spoken to my father, tried to hold conversation as he received a polite nod, and even asked me if my father ever speaks, which I told him no, he doesn't, not to me. Greg doesn't see the pale skin of my father's deathly woe, the crease of suffering in my mother's brow, the annoyance and left-over anger that radiates off of Grandfather's very soul. He doesn't see the ghost, doesn't see the pain, he sees four living people, alive and well and happy to be with me, their daughter, granddaughter, family. It's odd that he hasn't said anything, surely he has recognized my father's face... but no. He doesn't. He hasn't reacted at all.

 

He believes they are alive. As do I, for a time.

 

And I'm happy for it.

 

I spend my dinner each night like this, with the ghosts of my family, and I always learn something new about them and myself. No one criticizes me here, no one hates me, no one hurts me, no one lies to me, manipulates me, accuses me of abomination. Here, I am simply Mariemeia Kushrenada, and I am sharing my dinner with ghosts.

 

--Fini