21-Dec-2000
Well... I've been toying with this for a while, and I'm partly writing it to make up for not having time to reply to her mail, which I would have loved to do. However, I really need to someone to rant to, Hi-chan... You available?
This is from her poem, 'Death's Whisper'. If you want to comment on it, her email address is masterhiroshi@hotmail.com
Suggested listening: "Bachelorette" by Bjork. (Suggested listening is usually whatever I was listening to as I wrote something.
This is set sometime after the series, before EW.
Warnings: Angst, shounen ai?
Pairings: If I write a sequel, it'll be 1+2 (On a random comment, I just figured out how to that little text to makes squares and cubes and stuff... O.o)
Disclaimer: Poem by Hiroshi
Archive: GW Addiction, of course! (Just the poem in italics)
[What would it be like
to drop myself into the farthest sea,
off the darkest rock,
to fall forever and then be free?]
The same wind on Duo's hair would have been painful. As it was, the sea gale whipped his hair from its normal organized chaos, its fingerless grasp beating it against his face and ears, stinging them as his clothes were whisked similarly against his body, almost frail in its slenderness. Anything extraneous was immediately lifted, outlining the liquid lines of his shape in an ever changing pattern of folds and wrinkles. The wail of the strong gust rivaled the rhythmic crash of the surf against rocks, wearing stone smooth in an eternal cycle of roar, collide, and recede, only to roar again. The impact was so strong that droplets were separated from the body, thrown dozens of feet up a cliff to form a spray that condensed on his face and form in a soft, glowing mist that contradicted with the angry burn residing in his vibrant blue eyes.
Heero Yuy noticed none of this, those eyes focused on nothing but reflecting the crashing breakers and their slowly eroding barrier of stone. His bare feet's steps were traced through damp sand, past signs warning of an unstable drop, foreboding shapes of stone casting steady shadows over the land. His thin shirt, white regulation, clung to his chest and arms in a moist film, turned peach from his skin. The howling wind chilled his wet body, but he ignored it as always, dropping to crouch at the sandy ledge, knocking loose scree that rattled down the cliff surface to disappear into the crushing waves with a splash that was gone as soon as it registered in his mind.
Would he be forgotten that quickly, written off as the meaningless pilot of a machine of death, just another terrorist forsaken by his people? Would he even care, wrapped in death? Would he be aware of this earth, or would the mortal coil be unknown to him forever after? It would be wonderful, to concentrate on nothing, be aware of nothing, care about nothing. Ignore the suffering of the helpless people, turn a deaf ear to their cries and a blind eye to their hardships. Surrender to the endless drop, land in nothingness...
[To drown slowly in the crushing waves-
to fly down into death--
Leaving my body on the shore,
on the rocks, gasping for breath.]
It was oh so tempting, to let himself slide into death, and it as easy as relaxing, releasing his tense muscles' hold on life. He would have no chance - he'd heard that water, from this side, was like hitting cement. He'd felt the effects months early as Wing, a machine custom built for destruction, plummeted into the ocean, smoking as is tore air all the way down, with a scream heard by none. Would falling be like flying, giving control to the wind?
[What would it be like
to leave my empty shell, finally and forever,
an empty corpse with few regrets,
to take my last dimming link, and sever?]
He'd never before seriously contemplated suicide, it had always been blocked immediately from his mind, screaming to himself that he was needed for the mission. But now that was gone, he was nothing but a statistic, a face known to few but wondered about by many. He suffered through notoriety, hate and idolization alike. It meant nothing, though, as he reflected, a shape blurred by mist and grabbed at by the gale, any sound overpowered by the sea. A hunched form, so near death he nearly simply forgot he was alive, shutting his eyes to the dusky horizon made indistinct by the same spray that turned his outline to haze.
He was thought of as dead, a living corpse, animated to kill, with no feelings to speak of. Nothing reeking of humanity would taint his cold perfection. He had nothing here, not a tie to the world but his corporeal form, and even that was thinning, so close to being severed here, just a few inches from being complete in death.
[I think I'm going to figure out-
for I'm standing here on the edge--
prepared to jump and leave,
my lonely little ledge.]
So close to climax... He accepted it, yielded finally, aware now of the small noise caused by falling pebbles dislodged by his shifting form. He let go, sinking into his nothing, resting tired muscles as he prepared for finality. It was penetrated, though, by a voice, echoing even through the resounding wail of wind and crash of waves.
"Heero! Matte!"
To be continued? (I know at least one person who'll want a happy ending...)
I know a lot of that was figurative, but it worked as literal.
Ryan Harbin
Please send comments to: rioroute_vilgyna@yahoo.com