The Demon Ororon Fan Fiction ❯ Terra Incognita ❯ The Angel Chiaki ( Chapter 1 )

A/N: I don't own The Demon Ororon.

 

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Terra Incognita

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The Angel Chiaki

 

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Where do you go when you feel so alone?

Where do you sleep, wanting to cry?

Who do you turn when don't want to live?

Who do you tell when you want to die?

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My thoughts flow like that as I watch my feet take a little step forward. . . and another. . . and another, until they begin to conduct a repeated flow. . . unbalanced yet continuous. My arms actuate the same sluggish rhythmic movements, swinging back and forth, cutting through the soft breeze that can not be felt without notice.

Like a lyric unsung in my head, I think of things that had happened, or could have happened while I pass by people who ignores my presence as I do to theirs.

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Where do you go when you are lonely?

Where do you scream when you are angry?

Where do you sit when you are unhappy?

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Autumn leaves fell like tears, crying. . . crying, crying. In a few weeks, winter would come and ice this world into a blanket of whiteness, sobbing hails and flakes to accompany its loneliness.

I stop for a little bit as I watch a tree on the other side of the empty road coat itself with feather-light leaves that plummeted like little tornadoes, swirling until they hit the bottom. Then I imagine myself like the leaves, dying and pushing away from their homes to find their ends.

I began walking again.

The second autumn from my fifteenth year was, yet, another failure. Every day as I face another bleak morning, my eyes begin to fade and fade until they die completely. Not only did my heart go numb, but also did my soul break utterly into pieces.

Each new days, I begin to anticipate it to end so that I could turn my back to it and slumber forever in the night. Sleep always did comfort me no matter the situation. I don't go to school, so it gave me a little more freedom than any other teenagers. I don't know anything about math, or the world, or science, or anything.

I only learn through experiences, which generally revolves around socialization, or things you wouldn't normally learn in classes.

Lika-chan told me that I was smarter that she is. Naught school-wise, though, but life-wise. All those things I learned two years ago, she was probably right. Although I haven't kept up with what Othello had gone through, I'm still just two steps away to surpass his pain.

Because, unlike him, I can't totally hide them inside me. There's just no way I can do that anymore.

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Where do you sleep when you are not stained?

Where do you turn to when you are in love again?

Where do you die when nothing's left to gain?

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The air picks up, brushing through my scalp and threading through my once boy-cut blonde hair now a waist-length dark flaxen through the wind. My footwork slows down a bit, as well as my unsung thoughts, so that I could give the breeze more room to loom over me.

Dead black eyes glaze over the cool cement, observing the leaves that fell down to fly up once again in a waltz with the breaking current. Lika-chan wanted to trim my hair once, telling me that having it above shoulder length suited me a bit. I ended up giving her the cold shoulder instead, at that remark.

How can I go back to looking as I was two years ago after that incident? I already had a hard time facing myself in front of the mirror that same year he died. I didn't even eat or sleep for weeks, resulting me to slimmer down more to the bones and causing me to act very weak.

It isn't as bad as it was now, but I still couldn't face myself to eat or sleep, after making burnt black toast in the morning he had once left, and on a cold mattress I couldn't sleep on until he comes by and watch me.

My eyelids lower as thoughts focused on one.

Lika-chan is probably worried that I haven't come home in three days. I doubt anybody's worried. If they were, Shiro and Othello would have already dragged me back inside Lika's home.

It's not my home.

Not my home. . . not mine own.

The home I once had. . . was gone two years ago, and everything I held dear to me was spiritually buried in that lonely dwelling where I had met so many friends and created a large family I thought I can keep until the ends of my time.

Unfortunately, all my wishes were always defective. I don't blame that somebody out there who makes them come true.

Nobody in this lifetime will wish to create a family out of strangers you call friends and keep them forever.

Because forever is always a damn lie. Just like his promise to never leave me.

The word always did start with fate, and therefore, will end in fate. Those who vow with that lone word of 'forever' always met their demise.

Telling someone 'forever' is a huge step to crossing the lines of lies, and the truth is always a difficult task to face.

Forever is never forever.

Lika offered Shiro, Kuro, Miss Lucy, and I to live in her house, after many forced acts on her parents, who surrendered to her blackmails. Instead, they offered Lika her grandparents' house, who had passed away a long time ago.

Nobody bought the house yet, for it was way too small to comfort on. But we all accepted willingly and my aunt and uncle forcefully gave me enough money to take care of my myself for another few years. Othello visited every so often to check up on us (and his girl) as a welcomed family and went back to Hell as the dutiful new King of Hell (most to his detest).

We were all fine on the outside. We lived among ourselves in one small house. Miss Lucy took care of the housework, Lika did the money and took on part-time jobs after school to keep our currency balanced, and Shiro and Kuro acted as our bodyguards (lazying off and dozing around at times). I was in charge of keeping all of us alive, clean, healthy, and well-nourished.

It isn't much of a job, and I doubt they'd want me to take on a harder responsibility.

None of them ever once mentioned his name from their tongues. I know that as they look at me, his name only echoes in their minds, as much as it reverberate inside me, a silent sound of longing and desire to belong.

They never showed any hints that they missed him, or that they're just too good at concealing them. I, on one hand, am oblivious about it.

No matter how much, how many times I smile, laugh, and talk, there's that obvious hint of anger and sadness deep within my voice that only those who are very close to me can sense. It pained Lika to see me like that, and annoyed the others. But I am my own feelings.

I could sit there on the couch, on the floor, or just eat lunch or dinner and happily talking to my friends, and I could just break down and cry and tell them over a millionth times how much I missed him.

 

I miss him. . . I miss him. . . I miss him. . . I miss him. . . I miss him!

 

I could sit there laughing with you and I could accidentally, and maybe even purposely, call you Ororon. You could well be a stranger just bidding me a morning greet and I could just shed tears and tell you how much I love you, Ororon.

There is no other being in this planet that could ever fill the only hole he dug in my heart. Family, friends, and even therapists can never heal me.

Only he can. Only he could.

I missed that chances and now I'm left on the earth a wandering broken body with a broken soul. Just like him. . . I'm a bloomed flower, ready to shed its petals of a broken soul.

I'm so tired of living. Keeping my bloodshot puffy eyes was exhausting and I just want to close them forever. I hug myself sometimes, hoping I could also hug my heart and warm them. But they're already frozen, and nobody in this planet can ever melt them back to whole.

I had let my feet work on its own and it lead me far on a highway bridge. I stop midway of the sidelines and look out at the large river horizon.

Where do you go when you feel you want to die?

Where do you sleep, wanting to cry?

Dying is so easy, as I climb up the thick railing and hold onto a cord for my dear life. As I look down at the water with ease, my dead eyes begins to reflect it's golden sparks, mirroring my sudden wonder.

What would it feel like to jump off?

The thought made me chuckle. I'm at least thousands and thousands of feet above. If I jump, I'd have enough time to feel like. . . I'm flying.

Why is life so hard to live and death so easy to fulfill? I question those who can get up in the morning feeling so fresh and new and lay back down to sleep, comfortable and relaxed, while I wake up with a thudding heart and sleep with a hollow beat.

Why is it that death is so hard for others? You can easily take a knife and slice off your veins. You can easily use it to stab your heart. You can easily kill yourself. As it is easy to jump off a building, else wise, a bridge.

People can actually carry this much pain every day and endure them? Or am I the only one carrying this much burden?

Just how heavy must hurt be for people to stop living? Just how many more tons must I try to abide to hate living? Just how many people must I kill to kill myself in return?

Unsung lyrics pounded against my thoughts as I sway a little, moving forward to try and see the bottom of the water.

What does it feel like to fly? If I jump, will I be able to feel it? If I jump, will I be able to fly to him? Be with him again?

Are you hurting? I think as I wonder where he is right now.

When the King of Hell dies, where does he go? Where do devils who kill others and their selves, angels who sinned go?

Is there such a place as another Hell? Or do they just vanish from existence after that. My thoughts come up to that only conclusion but I knew it wasn't true.

Because I haven't forgotten about him and I never would. If there are any force out in this world that can erase a person's being, they sure did it pretty bad to me, because no matter what force will make me forget his name, there is no other power in this universe that can erase the pain.

Not even a single teardrop from God Himself. Nor from the new Ruler of Hell. And I'm sure Othello is not a crybaby.

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When the winds cry and the rain falls. . .

I still stand out here waiting until he calls.

When the moon rises and the sun dies. . .

Where do you cry in your fatal demise?

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Like the river water, so does my body flow forward and out towards the sea, letting my hand slip away from the cord, that only thing I could've held onto to stay living. The wind is strong enough to let me stretch my arms out like wings and aid me slowly as I jump off the bridge.

The rapid wind cuts through my figure and I close my eyes and feel the atmosphere of where I once was born. I'm sure Othello wouldn't mind me being in this situation. He could feel my pain and he was nearly as similar as his little brother. I just hope Lika and Kuro wouldn't grieve over my death too long.

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Where do you go when you are lonely?

Where do you scream when you are angry?

Where do you sit when you are unhappy?

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" The two of you. . . should never have met. "

If we weren't meant to meet each other, how is it that I found him and took him home. How is it that he willingly saved me from any situation I'm feeling.

He was once the King of Hell, but he was like the angel to my eyes, with the darkest and saddest eyes I've ever seen. Like wise, he is also my savior.

I am nothing without him. I have no one. I only want him. Only my Ororon.

What does it feel like to spread your wings and fly? When your feeling so down, do you imagine that you're an angel and you can just fly away from your problems?

I think that as I smell my last breath of air and my frail body plummets down onto the water. I wait until I'm deep enough, so that I can flap my arms one last time beneath the waters and let the bottomless pit take me in the darkness with him.

I want to be with you, life or death. I don't ever want to turn back when you are already in front of my eyes. Let our unsung lyrics of thoughts blend into one song that is only ours.

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Let's go to a place where you and I could be.

A faraway place, just you and me.

A mile, a mile away, only you and I can see.

Fly, Ororon. . . please fly with me.

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end ? . . . or. . . to be continued ?