This is angsty and sad. You have been warned. (so please don't review with "I didn't like this it was sad" ok? At least give me more than that. Lol)
Disclaimer: Don't own LOZ! Duh! OO
The sun is rising, laboriously lifting itself over the eastern horizon to cover the land with its white rays of light. The sky is purplish, like a bruise, like an aching pain that has yet to heal completely. Birds call to each other in greeting, as if there is something to celebrate within this world. How naïve they are. How I wish I could be blissfully ignorant like the little brown sparrows that are now chirping in the blooming pear trees.
No one, not even I, can escape the pains of this world. Those feelings that crush your heart and cause you to renounce hope forever; bruises of the heart; pains of the mind; lacerations of the spirit: they all exist. They are omnipresent within myself.
Sweep the steps, sweep the dirt from your house, it does not matter that he will never set foot here again, this is your job, sweet the steps, Malon, that is your duty, that is your purpose, sweep the dirt from your life, brush away the grime of your existence.
What else are you meant for but to feel the filth sully your hands and cake your fingernails?
He is not returning. He is not coming back to you. He does not love you. He does not want you to become his wife, to bear his children, to stay by his side, to share his bed. He does not desire your body or mind or spirit or heart or dreams or wishes. Accept the inevitable. You are only fooling yourself, giving life to girlish whimsies.
I grip my broom tightly to the point that I can feel the wood digging into my palms and causing them to burn with pain. I stare at the dirt, it has not left the steps of my home, it will forever be there, why am I attempting to sweep it away, it will never disappear. It is the same as with him – just like the grime will never leave my home will he never return here to it.
The sky is fading to blue like a bruise that is beginning to heal yet still present. I do not notice, though. The colors of this world mean nothing to me as I grip my broom, my salvation in this whirlpool of anguish.
Memories flood my mind. Memories of him. Memories of when I was young and innocent and still able to feel joy at the littlest possibilities.
You were crying, I remember. In the stable, in the hay, it was night and I was drawing water from the well for my bath. I heard your cries of suffering and I went to you. Next to the stall of Epona you leaned against the wall and were weeping pitifully. I set my bucket of fresh water down and without a thought I encircled you in my small, but sincere, embrace. You clung to me as if trying to hold onto your sanity.
"Death, I see death, the spilling of innocent blood, will it ever end?" You look up, your blue eyes red and puffy and teary. You grab my hands. "Malon, will it ever end?"
"I don't know, I don't know," I answer. "Do things like that ever go away from the world?"
Your eyes widen in absolute horror and comprehension. A faint cry echoes from your throat. "No, no, they don't. I can't do anything about it, Malon. People are dying and there is nothing I can do." Suddenly you grab my face and yank it towards yourself; I bite back a cry of fear and surprise. "I watched a man…" You gulp but continue; your fingers dig into my cheeks. "There was a woman, he did something to her, she was crying for him to stop, but he just laughed and he slapped her and kept going, then other men came, they did the same thing and she was weeping and then and then…"
"They killed her, Malon. They slit her throat. And they laughed. They laughed, Malon. I just watched. There was nothing I could do. I was afraid. I let her die and let her blood flow onto the street of the alleyway and I did nothing." You begin to weep hysterically. "I did nothing. I let her die. I walked over her body and the blood soaked into my boots – I felt it there, my feet were wet with it, it was sticky and warm…"
You let go of me and continue to weep with cries of guilt and shame. I feel tears of my own glide down my face; what or whom I am crying for I am not certain. The only instances I remembered of crying were when Father chastised me or one of the horses stepped on my foot. But these, these are tears for the boy before me who is inconsolable. I can do nothing. I am silent in my own personal anguish.
That was long ago. That was when my love for you began to grow: first out of pity, then caring, then infatuation, then to love. It has never left me. Do you know that? Did you know how much I wanted to take you away from your suffering? But I did not. I failed you.
The broom has left my hands now. It lies on the ground, on the dirty steps that lead into my house. Warm liquid is pouring from my eyes; I trace a finger down their length and recognize them as tears, or possibly blood, one in the same, really. Blood from my wounds; tears from my pain. All the same, they are identical to me.
I comforted you. I would do so right now if you were before me and weeping so piteously. I still love you with my entire being – your sweet face, your voice, your wit, your tenderness, your talent, your intelligence – everything, all of it. Every bit of you is precious to me.
But it is not the same for you. I am not so precious to you. I know this. You told me. You told me that you did not love me and did not feel that way about me. How can one define that "way" of feeling? Is it desire for another's body, is it obsession of that person's qualities, is it a deep caring for another's well being? Is this what I feel for you? Or do I only want your body against mine, the feeling of your calloused skin touching my own?
It doesn't matter how I feel, why I feel this way. I love you, you do not love me. It is a fairly simply concept. How can something so basic hurt so much?
The sun is still rising. The brown sparrows in the pear trees are still chirping. The sky is more blue than violet. A breeze is blowing. The world turns, continues on, despite my pain. I stare at the dirt of my home, the dirt I have yet to sweep from my life.
If the grime disappears, will you return to me? If I become like her, will you love me?
I pick up my broom. I sweep. I pray. I cry. I remember the taste of blood from my memories. You will haunt me until the end of time. But I will go on. Despite the spilling of blood and the flowing of salty tears I will persevere. I will persevere to sweep away the grime of my home.
NOTE: Please don't flame me if you do not agree with this. But then again, no one's stopping you, so bring it on! It only gives me more of an incentive to write! Hahahaha This was just something I came up with out of the blue, so to speak, and I hope you liked it. If it's something that can be considered likeable. I hope someone reviews. (sigh) If not, then I'll live. Anyway, until we meet again… Oo