Yu Yu Hakusho Fan Fiction ❯ Prelude to Destruction ❯ Prelude to Destruction ( One-Shot )

He didn't allow himself to forget.

 

Of course, it was hard not to forget that night, and along with it, his father, but he preserved his memory all the same. He kept a picture of him on the mantle, along with all the other pictures of his family and treasured things, but his father was front and center.

 

Every time he passed the mantle, or sat alone on rainy nights with only the pounding on the roof to comfort him, he remembered.

 

And he had the flowers - his precious chrysanthemums.

 

They had disappeared. He didn't know what happened to them, but he had planted them one year and it seemed to him that the earth had swallowed them whole. That had been about two years ago and he had never really gotten over it. It was stupid, really. A couple of flowers were just…a couple of flowers. But he had somehow felt attached to them; he felt that they represented his most precious memory.

 

He had neglected his garden in favor of those flowers, and nearly two years ago, he was standing in this exact spot, watching everything he loved fall to pieces. But he had worked hard, and now the garden was flourishing again, although his chrysanthemums were nowhere to be found.

 

He was in the garden again. It was there that he felt most comfortable, surrounded by sweet fragrances and protected by a cover of swaying foliage. But this time, it was different. He lay back on the grass, and when he turned his head to the spot where his flowers had lived, he found himself staring at a pile of dirt shaded by his beloved rosebush.

 

He could tell that it wasn't new, the layer of dust covering the weapon told him that. It looked beautiful and smooth, and to his six-year-old mind, that was amazing.

 

He wasn't exactly sure what to do with it, he knew what it was but he wasn't entirely sure what it was capable of. He had seen them in movies and he knew that they could kill people, but he wasn't quite sure what that meant. His aunt had died a while ago, and he remembered going to a place where people dressed in black cried and murmured of a better place. He had never again seen or heard about his aunt after that, but then again, he had never seen or heard about his aunt before that moment so he assumed it didn't really matter.

 

He took the gun out of the drawer and he felt his heart pounding menacingly. It was heavy in his hand; the metal smooth against his sweaty palms. He suddenly felt the gun sliding out of his hands. He had held it too loosely, mistaking it for a harmless toy. It fell to the floor in slow motion. He panicked and grabbed for the gun but he was too late and it landed on the floor, the clank of the metal against wood dull and loud in his ears.

 

Nothing happened. He wasn't exactly sure what would have happened, but he knew that the gun would do something bad. He was fine now, but his heart rate was going a million miles a minute. His eyes darted around, as if expecting something else to happen, and he slowly bent down and reached for the gun. When he picked it up, something gave and there was a small, quiet click, which made him, jump ten feet in the air. He suddenly had a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him he had gotten himself into something horribly bad.

 

“You okay up there?” his father's voice floated up from downstairs and he jumped again.

 

“Um, yeah, I just dropped something!” he shouted back, hoping his voice wouldn't betray the panic he was feeling.

 

The next thing he knew the door was opening and everything came crashing around him, slowly and painfully.

 

“Are you in here? I thought I heard-” his father interrupted himself when he saw him holding the gun. His voice changed to a panicked, fearful tone. “Give me that!” he strode towards him menacingly and he had never seen his father look so evil. He backed away a bit out of fear and panic.

 

“Daddy, I was just - ”

 

“Put the gun down.” His father commanded in a calm, yet panicked tone.

 

“Here, I just - ”

 

Suddenly a deafening, terrifying bang sounded and he found himself being knocked backwards, away from his father, who slumped to the floor, unmoving. He landed on his bottom, hands behind him and he crawled backwards, away from the horrific scene unfolding in front of him. As soon as he saw his father's body and the thick red liquid surrounding his head, he couldn't help it. Fear and panic and terror erupted from his throat, and he screamed and screamed as if the sound would cause his father to wake.

 

A figure appeared at the door and his shrill cries turned to pathetic sobs as he recognized his mother. And he knew that he would never forget that look on her face for the rest of his life.

 

He sat there, in the garden, doing nothing but think. He had gotten over the loss of his beautiful chrysanthemums, but had he gotten over the loss of his childhood? He lay there, thinking and staring at the beautiful blossoms. Suddenly, he sat up and raced inside the house. He returned with a pen and notebook in hand, scribbling frantically, the pen scratching across the paper as if possessed. He sat down on the ground and an overwhelming feeling washed over him, cool and peaceful. He was in the garden again.