Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ The Broken Child ❯ One-Shot

The Broken Child

by Andrea Sinisterra

Standard Disclaimers Apply

I dedicate this to Luanne and Tomorrow.

Author's note: This is something different from what I usually write, but I got this idea as I listened to Matchbox 20's Bright Lights last night.

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I used to have this dream when I was little, I remember it so clearly. I have never seen anything so bright or so full of simplistic harmony as the images I saw in my dream.

Whenever my life got too complicated, or the noises outside my door got too loud, I would just hide in the old, creaky closet in my room, dust and cobwebs hiding me from the pain I knew was outside the thin wood of my bedroom door. I would cradle the only doll I had, a frilly, dirty old rag doll dressed in dirty, pink wool; wide, brown eyes looking at me with a happiness I didn't- couldn't understand. And she was my only friend.

I would sit, pressed to the farthest wall inside that closet, upon a brown blanket that stank of humidity; that scent was what gave me a sense of safety. The hours would span into daylight, when the barging on my bedroom door would get too loud and I would have to rush to my bed and crumble the sheets, hasty to make it look as if I had slept the entire night in that old, crafty bed.

Inside that closet, with my eyes closed, my mind slipping to a world with no darkness, no screams or harsh words, I dreamed. I dreamed of places I didn't know existed, and probably don't. I dreamed of faces of people I have never seen; smiles that were so rare in my childhood. I dreamed of voices that were soft and caring, calling my name in gentle whispers, a sharp contrast to the screaming and ordering, whiplash as punishment.

I used to dream I was lying on a bed, so different from the one I avoid in my waking moments; rays from a golden sun washing my face, warming my limbs and embracing my cold heart. There was water, too. A pond made of the most crystalline water, shimmering from the radiance of light, and reflecting the forest shrouding me from harm. The tallest trees, of a green only reserved for the minds of the greatest of artists, rose around me; a canopy of multicolor shades making everything surreal and mystic.

My bed floated on that pond, static as a rock as the world danced in slow circles around me.

It was a place where I could laugh, and sing and just be myself… yet, I wasn't free. I was imprisoned, held captive by the beauty of that place, no way of getting to the shore.

When I was born the sky cried heavy tears of pain and misery. The nurses said I was a child doomed, fated for suffering and struggling. And they were so right. My mother died at childbirth, and my father was too much of a coward to face life. I was born to be alone, brought to a life of struggles and hardships.

One of the nurses named me. I heard I was named after her grandmother, a woman who had lived and loved… all by herself. Relena, the Broken Child.

I became the charity of many homes throughout the city, yet no one was willing to take me. I was forced into many households, bearing the looks full of despite from ungrateful kids; households where I was looked down by parents who treated me like a kitchen rag, used me to wipe their shiny, white tiled floors, and thick, crystal windows… I was a mere burden at their disposal.

There was this one girl; she was maybe two or three years younger than me. I only stayed at her home for a few weeks, but she was the only person who really showed interest, who really showed me friendship. The only things I have left from that friendship are the tatters of her rag doll.

It was perhaps the sixth or seventh house I reached, I'm not certain, when I finally gave up. I started to look at the bright side of things, searching for the perfect golden spot in all the shit and cruelty of my life.

And I did find it.

I didn't care if the house looked like it was falling apart; I didn't care for the insects and cobwebs. I didn't care if the old lady in the red coat, Mrs. Dragmyre, thought I was her godsend maid, didn't care that she whipped me every time I did something she deemed wrong… I was thankful for my bed, for the scant grains on my plate… I was thankful I had lost all hope.

I didn't wish for anything greater in life. I was just a kid who was born on a rainy, morose day, whose mother died at labor and whose father had abandoned her before she was even born. Really, I was thankful.

I was thankful for my dreams. They came to me during my time at that house, as I sat under the willow tree after hours, spilling meaningless tears and wishing to be cradled in a warm embrace. I fell asleep covered in the night's dew, surrounded by nature and its lulling, peaceful sounds.

I got whipped that morning for disobeying the house rules.

Every single day, as I weeded plants, swept the floors or cleaned grains, I would think of the intricate world of my dream, the imaginary colors and scents engraved to my memory. I would count the hours and minutes, hoping the day to be over so I could crawl back into my dream bed, and be surrounded by heaven.

When the old man Dragmyre died, my hell became a revolting inferno. Mrs. Dragmyre became more demanding, whipping me for the slightest of mistakes, and even to content her displeased heart. The land started dying, the harvest we worked so hard on withering, wilting, turning everything a decaying, dead yellow.

The screaming started the third night after his death. People in town began rumoring Mrs. Dragmyre would die of heartache. She would wake in the middle of her sleep, deep in the cloak of night, bathed in sweat, screaming names, moaning as she grabbed her head in what seemed pain.

A few months passed, and she only worsened.

The day of my sixteenth birthday brought me my dream back. Yet, this time, as I floated on my bed in the middle of the pond, people stood watch at the shore, all around me. Some had condescending looks on their faces, others, pity. Between the dozen or so faces, I recognized Mr. and Mrs. Dragmyre. The little girl from my past was there too, and in her hands, the pink rag doll.

I realized all the people around me were people I had actually met at one point in my life.

And yet, no one helped me from the isolation of my bed.

That same day, I left for town, a silver platter under my arm. People are really cruel. They all looked down at me, trying their best to ignore the motherless girl in the filthy, tore clothes. No one would talk to me; much less sell me any food.

And for the first time in my life, I stole. And I don't regret it.

I carried bread and fruit hidden in the folds of my dress, hastily walking through the market, all the way to the forest, until the clearing where the Dragmyre house was located.

Mrs. Dragmyre had long since given up on any sort of speech, choosing to look at me in silent contemplation, as she ate whatever I gave her, no questions asked. I often wondered what she thought as she looked at me, wondered why she never demanded from where I got the food… I often wondered if she wished she were dead and join her husband in that other world…

I often wondered many things, and I never got an answer.

That afternoon, I had a visitor. I would never forget the face of that man as he saw me. I realized what he must have seen: dirty clothes and skin, tanned face from hours of work… I was a real piece of art.

For some reason, my first reaction to this was contempt. I was abrupt as I addressed him, not even asking for his motive of visit, much less his name.

My voice had sounded strange to my own ears; it had been so long I had not spoken… "Is there anything you want?"

Something had changed in his face, and it took me a moment to realize how handsome this man was. Yet, there wasn't anything welcoming in him; his eyes were hard and penetrating, his shoulders broad and unyielding, and his voice, as he answered my demand, was deep and almost harsh.

"I believe this belongs to you."

And in his hands, he held the silver platter I had left on the counter when I snatched the fruit and bread that same morning.

"A telltale blush on such a fair skin is a dead giveaway."

Indeed I could feel the heat rushing up my chest to my face, but his words only angered me further.

"Well, I wouldn't have to resort to such methods if you would just sell me what I need!"

His face turned grim for a moment, and then he smiled and handed me the platter.

"What's your name?"

There was something in his voice, something had changed. I could read it in his body as he stood on the doorway to the big, old, stone mansion that was the Dragmyre Household. His eyes softening as he looked at me, the blue in them golden with the setting sun.

"Relena."

"Relena…?"

I felt ashamed as I compared his fine clothes to my filthy ones, the difference in our names probably being the biggest shame of all. "I don't have a last name."

His smile was rueful as he bent down and kissed the back of my hand. I will never forget the feeling of his lips pressed to my knuckles.

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Relena."

That night, I wondered about that man. I never got his name.

I wouldn't see him for another three days, all of which rose with a basket of fresh fruit and recently baked bread at the house's doorstep. I meant to go to town and thank him, but in my heart, I couldn't find the courage to do so.

Mrs. Dragmyre had been getting worse as the days passed, her skin, pale, and her hair having gone completely white in a matter of weeks. She wouldn't eat, wouldn't so much as get up from bed.

I force-fed her, and made her drink the glass of previously boiled water I had fetched from the nearby riverbank. Her lips were always parched, and her eyes always blank, with that faraway look that made you wonder if she was still here or already there.

I dreaded the moment Mrs. Dragmyre would part, because it meant I would be alone, and too old to find another place to live. Even if it was unconsciously, Mrs. Dragmyre had become a sort of reluctant companion, and I, in turn, had become her guardian. Without her, I'd be left on my own…

On the morning of the fourth day after the man's visit, I got a rather particular present, not counting the daily basket of fruit and bread. No, instead, I got a horse. Although, to be fair, it looked more like a donkey to me than a horse.

The man was there, smoothing the horses' white mane. His dark locks shifted in the morning breeze, and as he looked at me, his eyes forever reflecting the golden glint of the sun in their blue depths, I wondered if he was in my life for mere coincidence.

"I thought you might want some help when going to the market."

I couldn't help myself as I replied, "from a donkey?"

He laughed, his voice filled with a mirth I hadn't heard before. "It's not a donkey. It's an Appaloosa."

"Well, it could be a cow, too, what with all the coloring and spots."

He smiled, and patted the horses' snout as it neighed. "I hope you liked the morning menu."

He started visiting more often, and then daily. Every morning he would be on his horse, waiting for me as I finished feeding Mrs. Dragmyre. I learned his name was Heero Yuy, and from what I could tell, he came from a very wealthy family, even if he was adamant in talking about it. I told him about my life and how I was brought up; all in a single tale that when I was done, the fear that gripped my heart was immeasurable. Perhaps scarcely tied with the embarrassment I felt realizing I had spilled the glory details of my more than pitiful childhood to a man who had never so much as gotten his hands dirty with menial things as fetching water or plucking roots.

But in his eyes, nothing registered except understanding. He didn't judge me, or criticize me, or even pitied me. He just nodded at my confessions, and I got too distracted as his hand reached for mine, and his thumb stroked my knuckles to care. I think he even did that unconsciously.

The autumn died into winter, the fallen leaves covered in snow. It was the fortnight after my confession, the sun having set a few hours ago. The chill of the night got implacable, merciless as it wound its cobwebs of ice around the house.

The fire in the hearth flared to life as I fed it the wood Heero had helped me cut into logs, afraid it would get wet. I stirred the orange juice inside the tin pot, adding some honey to the swirling liquid to soften the citrus sting.

But it was all in vain.

As I entered Mrs. Dragmyre's room, I knew it had finally happened; the room was far too cold, far too quiet and far too dark. I placed the bowl on the boudoir as I walked to her, each step a decade's length of time from the other. Her eyes were closed, lashes resting on withered, pale cheeks; and even without touching her, I knew she would have been just as cold as the snow outside.

I hid inside my closet that night, not giving the action a second thought. The brown blanket was still there, as was the rag doll of so long ago. But I couldn't touch it. I couldn't think, I couldn't even breathe. My eyes refused to close that night, and as the hours passed, the morning light filled my closet, warming my chilled skin.

There was something utterly gratifying when I found I couldn't move my limbs; perhaps it was because I couldn't muster enough strength to pick myself up from that musky floor, or perhaps because I knew, in my heart of hearts, there was no reason for me to. I had learned long ago that hope was only reserved for those who had something to fight for, and I remembered what I had realized so long ago and had forgotten…

I was alone. I was a motherless, nameless child. I had lost it all from the moment I first opened my eyes…

Every breath that left my lungs vanished in the air around me, and I was transfixed by it.

I wondered if Heero was waiting for me outside, like he usually did so early in the morning. I wondered if he would get upset or simply shrug at my absence. For some reason, the thought of either two pictures made my heart ache and my eyes water. He definitely made my sixteenth birthday memorable, as well as the few weeks after that. I would miss him, perhaps the only thing I would miss from this world.

I closed my eyes, and this time I did slip into nothingness, vanishing into my world of perfect isolation. People still surrounded me, and I could feel myself smiling when my eyes landed on the dark head of Heero.

I was woken by the movement around me, and I wasn't able to distinct the trees of my dream from the sudden darkness that surrounded me. It had all meshed into a multicolor canvas in my mind.

Heero had saved me that night, carried me into the warmth of his embrace and forced me to fight my weakness, my cowardly surrender. It all resembled my dream just before he woke me, and it made me wonder if it was really a forecast of something, or if it was my subconscious talking to me…

And now, as I stand here I can't help but smile as the world around smiles at me in return. Things have changed so much, and even if it's strange to understand, I owe it all to the Dragmyre family.

We buried Mrs. Dragmyre at the top of the hill just to the left of the house, right beside her husband. I knew it was the perfect place; overlooking the river below, and the horizon at the distance.

I was saved by him in my dream, as he stretched his hands and saved me from my imprisonment. I had found hope, found things to fight for in life. I am thankful for his help, for his understanding.

And as my husband's hand smoothes my rounded stomach, his face so close to mine, I smiled. There was a meaning to my life; I had created my own destiny.

My life anew will bring further challenges, but I know I don't have to fight them alone anymore. My life is finally a mended piece; scarred, but healed. I will forever remember the rain, and the autumn leaves, the screams and my dreams… but now, I have smiles and laughter to look up for; a single, vulnerable life in my womb. And another one at my side.

My life was always a multicolor puzzle, but now, it has become a radiant canvas, and in its brilliant shades, I learned I belong.

I am happy.

The End