Vision Of Escaflowne Fan Fiction ❯ Voyager ❯ From a Place Called Misery ( Chapter 1 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

By: raven91

Disclaimer: Escaflowne is not mine. This story was written with the intent of making money or receiving any kind of profit whatsoever. This disclaimer applies to all chapters henceforth.

My vision: Even years after seeing this anime, I continue to be entranced by its magic and beauty. But because I have grown up, I suppose that my characters have too. For this reason, I hope to make this story as realistic as possible. It is my hope that the readers can see the “living” side of these characters, just as I have.

Some themes in this story may disturb younger readers. If you are easily offended or are sensitive to topics such as suicide, graphic violence, and sex then you are in the wrong place. This is the only warning I will give.

Thank you very much for reading.

As always, I am your loyal writer,

FantomBlack

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Voyager

Chapter 1 - From A Place Called Misery

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I wanted to die.

If I was honest with myself, I could say that I had wanted to for a long time now. I just wasn't able to find the opportunity to help myself.

How many days? How many hours? How many seconds had passed since my dreaming began? Yes, dreaming. Dreams of war and wings and magnificent Gods of destruction. I told myself this every day. Believing that it was reality was one mistake that I would never again repeat. I suppose that I couldn't really blame my mother for what she did. She acted like any sensible parent would have. To her, my recollections of the horror and devastation I witnessed in the world beyond the Earth sounded like the hallucinations of a skitzophreniac. To her credit, she had warned me many times that I was behaving rather foolishly, that she would take me to seek medical attention. But I hadn't listened. At the time I had not yet realized that my adventures had only been a very vivid dream. Shock therapy and intensive anti-psychotics had made me understand the difference between dreams and reality quickly enough. But perhaps not quite quickly enough. Not fast enough to prevent my mind from collapsing entirely.

After it was decided that I should remain in the hospital until the doctor deemed me sane enough to be released, I lost track of time. I had counted all the flaws on the sterile while walls, given them all names, and had even managed to get used to sleeping huddled on the floor before I decided that hope was a notion I had to give up as soon as I possibly could. They came every day, several times a day, to give me drugs and therapy. Those leather belts and vile tasting mouthpiece no longer bothered me. It was the shocks that I couldn't really get used to. It seemed that every time those metallic leads attached to my temples released their deadly electricity that my hallucinations would get worse. Sometimes, when those images in my mind would unhinge my sense of reality completely, they would force a burning drink down my throat. Every time it snaked down my esophagus, I knew that my body was being irreparably damaged. But, at last, one day a nurse had carelessly left one of her pens behind on the floor. It was white, just like everything else in the place; perhaps that was why it was so easy to slip it into the folds of my smock. As I lay down that night, pretending to be deep asleep, I carved my sorrow into my wrists. I had almost achieved the release that I so longed for before the blood staining the floor was brought to the attention of the nurses. My cuts were sealed, I was placed into a straight jacket, and the doctor ordered that I be put on the list for "suicide watch". After being dosed with morphine and other, unidentifiable, drugs I finally understood what I had to do.

I cooperated to the best of my ability. No matter how frightening my hallucinations were during therapy, I did not scream. No matter how painful my existence was in my bare room with padded walls, I did not complain. In fact, after nearly six months of "good behavior" - as the doctors put it - I was given a reprieve. I passed the tests the physicians threw at me with flying colors. My mother came to pick me up, tears in her eyes, relief in her smile. I almost pitied her - almost. The drive home had been as uneventful as the eleven months that followed my release. I was not allowed to attend school or wander outside without an escort. A live-in nurse was assigned to keep a sharp eye on me. Not sharp enough as it turned out. I learned over that time that I was quite the cunning actress. Pretending to be sane was not as difficult for me as I had imagined. The horrid woman began to trust me to bathe alone - to even shave alone. As soon as I was certain that she could give me at least one hour to myself, I carried out the wicked plan I had been brewing up since my last attempt to end my life. Cutting myself the second time was much easier than the first. That time, I had been unsure of myself. Not so now. Where I had once stabbed through my skin horizontally, I now cut in a deep vertical pattern. Because I needed to die fast, I cut hard and long. Afterwards, I was fascinated to watch the red blur in the water expand until it stained the entire tub a crimson ruby.

Now all that was left was to wait.

Dying seemed like an eternity. I wondered if I should be focussing on something - a memory or image of some sort that I wanted to see as I drew my last breath. At first, nothing really came to mind. Not my parents who I hadn't seen for nearly a year while I was locked away. Not my little brother who had been sent to boarding school when he tried to defend me. Not Yukari, who had disowned me as a friend. Even my deceased grandmother who had fought for my freedom did not come to mind. The world had hated me and beaten me down. Why should I be thinking of it as I was saying goodbye to everything? Then - out of the hidden caverns of my hated recollections - his face appeared before me. The image was as clear as daylight and as unexplained as man's sixth sense. Those rose-red eyes made me drunk with the wine they so resembled. My breath left my lungs with a deep whoosh. That face was no longer as boyish as I remembered. Lines of hardship and responsibility had made the boy into a man. His name escaped my lips as the barest of whispers -

"Van..."

I felt myself leaving the heavy weight of my body behind, reaching out to that image that called to me with open arms. Immediately, I felt my faltering heart beat come to a stop. Somewhere far away was the realization that I was dead and somewhere much closer was the knowledge that I didn't care. I didn't even care that I was hallucinating again. Perhaps I could drift away in blissful ignorance.

In that precious moment, a bright, warm light caught at my hands. I heard the nurse banging at the door, heard it crash open, and saw the look of pure shock that crossed her strict features. She hesitated for a moment before screaming, grabbing the emergency radio at her waist and dialing 911. For the first time in what felt like centuries, I felt my mouth stretch into a grim smile of satisfaction. My mother barged through the opened door, her hands going up to cover her mouth, a silent scream building in her chest. All the while, the light continued to envelop me until what felt like warm water closed over my head. A voice whispered to me - you will go to hell for this - it sounded like my own. Heaven, hell - even if I had believed in them, I wouldn't have cared which one fate chose for me to go to. Eternal damnation sounded much more appealing than living on in a place that had no room for me.

Finally, the water surrounded me completely. I heard nothing more. I needed nothing more.

At last, I found my peace.

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Please review guys! I've never written from the first person before. Hope you enjoyed that little teaser!