Let Me Give The World To You
II
It's raining.
Personally, I love it. The ticking notes of the rain against society's structures, glass and concrete, wood and steel. Nature can't penetrate the strength of man, no, it just persists. Provides an annoyance at best. But some, maybe just me...some see it as beautiful. I could stay out here for hours, the passerby see me as crazy but I couldn't care less. Even if I wasn't standing out here they'd think I was crazy. My head thrown back against the September rain, the cooler side of lukewarm soaking through my clothes, plastering my hair against my forehead.
I throw myself down into an alley, plopped amongst the puddles, pressed into the pebbles of the street. No one would notice me here, no one would notice me anyway. Maybe as homeless, someone not to be talked to. They're right in a way. I may as well be homeless, the place I live in could hardly be called a home. Shabby apartment, paid for with a job I can't stand. And I definitely shouldn't be talked to. I'm the one mothers shuffle their children away from, the one respectable members of society look down their noses upon. No, I shouldn't exist--shouldn't be allowed. Really, now. The afterlife is a bitch when you keep on living.
Yes, I'm dead. Dead and gone for nine years now, nine long years. Funny, the number nine. Used to be mine when I used to run around with...well, I don't really care to think of them. The Organization. Yes, when a Nobody dies...they don't really die at all. Having survived death once, you can never really die again. Instead they send you into...well, I guess the people here call it the "real world". The real world, where powers and abilities are gone, one lives their life out as only one of the masses, one of the many. One of the many faceless, useless beings. What's worse is, I'll never die until I do it myself. Cast myself into permanent oblivion, show them all that I've given up. Can't take it. But I don't plan on conceding to them just yet. I plan on sticking around a little bit longer.
Not that there's much worth staying for in this world. Loneliness, bad television, cheap alcohol--the good life, indeed. A cheap lay every once in a while, roll over and let some creep slam himself into me. But it makes a buck when I'm late on the rent. Makes for pretending someone who actually loves me was doing it. But no...I don't think Nobodies were designed to be on either the giving or receiving end of love, in any situation. Still, I can't help but dream I might find something other than a one-night stand someday.
I lean my head back against the cold concrete wall. No, nothing like that could ever happen to me. I'm stuck in this endless loop of eternity, of leaving and losing, losing what I never had and leaving what was never there at all. Maybe I should give up. Maybe it's time. I'm nothing but a mess as it is...though in the back of my mind, something tells me to keep trying. To stick around a little longer. I don't know what it's waiting for. But it must be great.
"What on earth are you doing?"
A voice snaps me out of my private oblivion. I look up to see a pale face, wrinkled nose, mass of hair obscuring half of it all. All dry. All shadowed. Cloaked beneath the largest umbrella I've ever seen, big, black, and quite waterproof, it would seem. The figure in front of me didn't have a speck of water on their entire body. And they look somehow...familiar.
"I remember you...nine." you say softly.
My eyes widen.
"You were in....you're one of the..."
"I've never seen another dead one...how did I recognize you, after so long? All I remember is your face, your number...nothing else...not even a na..."
"Demyx..." I say softly.
"Zexion." you reply.
A silence falls between us. The only noise is the never-ending beat of the rain on your umbrella, on the street, on my face. We only look at each other, search for each other's story. Memories neither of us can remember, lost to our second death, but keeping us far from our third. Now we see. We see there are others, that everyone else has been thrown into the same world. But somehow I don't care about the others who have been thrown in here with us. There's something about you...
"Something about you seems...familiar" you say, in your same soft voice. Despite having just met you, or at least having it seem that way, your voice is so familiar. Why is that?
"I can't agree with you more"
The silence returns.
"Do you have any place to go?" you ask.
"Technically. It's not much at all. More of a prison then a home" I say, flipping my drenched hair out of my face.
"Is that so? They say solitary confinement is the worst punishment you can inflict on a man, did you know?"
"Huh. You read that somewhere?"
A flash of recognition goes through your eyes.
"No...but...hm...would you...care to come to my apartment? I know it's very forward, as we've just met, but..."
"I think we could find some things to talk about"
"I agree"
We look at each other again, and I pull myself up off the ground and walk away.
Out of the rain.
Out of what I love.
But somehow...
This seems as familiar as that love.
Maybe...
I could find those memories that I lost in that death.
Under this umbrella.
This train wreck of a soul just might get repaired.
Personally, I love it. The ticking notes of the rain against society's structures, glass and concrete, wood and steel. Nature can't penetrate the strength of man, no, it just persists. Provides an annoyance at best. But some, maybe just me...some see it as beautiful. I could stay out here for hours, the passerby see me as crazy but I couldn't care less. Even if I wasn't standing out here they'd think I was crazy. My head thrown back against the September rain, the cooler side of lukewarm soaking through my clothes, plastering my hair against my forehead.
I throw myself down into an alley, plopped amongst the puddles, pressed into the pebbles of the street. No one would notice me here, no one would notice me anyway. Maybe as homeless, someone not to be talked to. They're right in a way. I may as well be homeless, the place I live in could hardly be called a home. Shabby apartment, paid for with a job I can't stand. And I definitely shouldn't be talked to. I'm the one mothers shuffle their children away from, the one respectable members of society look down their noses upon. No, I shouldn't exist--shouldn't be allowed. Really, now. The afterlife is a bitch when you keep on living.
Yes, I'm dead. Dead and gone for nine years now, nine long years. Funny, the number nine. Used to be mine when I used to run around with...well, I don't really care to think of them. The Organization. Yes, when a Nobody dies...they don't really die at all. Having survived death once, you can never really die again. Instead they send you into...well, I guess the people here call it the "real world". The real world, where powers and abilities are gone, one lives their life out as only one of the masses, one of the many. One of the many faceless, useless beings. What's worse is, I'll never die until I do it myself. Cast myself into permanent oblivion, show them all that I've given up. Can't take it. But I don't plan on conceding to them just yet. I plan on sticking around a little bit longer.
Not that there's much worth staying for in this world. Loneliness, bad television, cheap alcohol--the good life, indeed. A cheap lay every once in a while, roll over and let some creep slam himself into me. But it makes a buck when I'm late on the rent. Makes for pretending someone who actually loves me was doing it. But no...I don't think Nobodies were designed to be on either the giving or receiving end of love, in any situation. Still, I can't help but dream I might find something other than a one-night stand someday.
I lean my head back against the cold concrete wall. No, nothing like that could ever happen to me. I'm stuck in this endless loop of eternity, of leaving and losing, losing what I never had and leaving what was never there at all. Maybe I should give up. Maybe it's time. I'm nothing but a mess as it is...though in the back of my mind, something tells me to keep trying. To stick around a little longer. I don't know what it's waiting for. But it must be great.
"What on earth are you doing?"
A voice snaps me out of my private oblivion. I look up to see a pale face, wrinkled nose, mass of hair obscuring half of it all. All dry. All shadowed. Cloaked beneath the largest umbrella I've ever seen, big, black, and quite waterproof, it would seem. The figure in front of me didn't have a speck of water on their entire body. And they look somehow...familiar.
"I remember you...nine." you say softly.
My eyes widen.
"You were in....you're one of the..."
"I've never seen another dead one...how did I recognize you, after so long? All I remember is your face, your number...nothing else...not even a na..."
"Demyx..." I say softly.
"Zexion." you reply.
A silence falls between us. The only noise is the never-ending beat of the rain on your umbrella, on the street, on my face. We only look at each other, search for each other's story. Memories neither of us can remember, lost to our second death, but keeping us far from our third. Now we see. We see there are others, that everyone else has been thrown into the same world. But somehow I don't care about the others who have been thrown in here with us. There's something about you...
"Something about you seems...familiar" you say, in your same soft voice. Despite having just met you, or at least having it seem that way, your voice is so familiar. Why is that?
"I can't agree with you more"
The silence returns.
"Do you have any place to go?" you ask.
"Technically. It's not much at all. More of a prison then a home" I say, flipping my drenched hair out of my face.
"Is that so? They say solitary confinement is the worst punishment you can inflict on a man, did you know?"
"Huh. You read that somewhere?"
A flash of recognition goes through your eyes.
"No...but...hm...would you...care to come to my apartment? I know it's very forward, as we've just met, but..."
"I think we could find some things to talk about"
"I agree"
We look at each other again, and I pull myself up off the ground and walk away.
Out of the rain.
Out of what I love.
But somehow...
This seems as familiar as that love.
Maybe...
I could find those memories that I lost in that death.
Under this umbrella.
This train wreck of a soul just might get repaired.