The Genesis of The Beginning part 1 of 7
PG for :: mild depression, cowardism, and the use of non-existant words.
Disclaimer: ... Please. I wouldn't be posting on or elsewhere if this was mine, and also, I'd be publishing it. (Doubt I could get money, but eh.) Also, please feel free to nit-pick. This has been reposted to fix gramatical (tense) problems.
.::. Enter a boarder here! You know you want one! A hot blond one with no shir --- ahem. Please, ignore me. It would be best for both of us! .::.
He had always hated being a coward. This sneaky, slimy fear of living is so detestable, a skill learned by the weak and fearful. Of course, he didn't seem like a coward, but that is only because he was a worse type of coward from the norm. He was afraid of living . . . of the unknown . . .
Lucrecia . . .
Cowards take the easy way out, the path of no risks. If asked, he could have told this much:
It's risk free to be in love with a woman who is dead.
No risk involved at all; she can't ever hurt you again.
He had grown rather fond of his martyr appearance -- of the tortured and alone soul. It makes life so much easier. None expected him to do anything but to shoot when monsters appeared. Just point the gun, pull the trigger, no risks, don't have to get close . . .
Even when he was younger, he was smart in his cowardly ways. In teenage years, one has to have someone to love, to give the most precious gift -- soul -- to, to obsess over.
Risk-free for that someone to be out of reach, not matter how far or close . . .
He would just let his subconscious pick the person. She was always beautiful, and kind, and perfect . . . perfectly unattainable. He'd gotten good at choosing the correct people to fall for.
He had slept so long in that coffin, half pleased with his own ability to hide from life so completely, half disgusted by himself. He soaked -- i stewed /i -- in his own creeping, crawling, slimy cowardice . . .
He must have gotten sick of it and not consulted himself.
At night, in the Inns, under the stars, where ever, he could be found staring blankly up; confused, prying wonderingly at the most recent developments.
He doesn't want to be a coward. He has begun struggling not to be, but with the way things were headed, he is still scared of what is happening, developing beyond his control.
He could only guess that he was growing up a little. It sounded strange to apply that thought to a grown man, but it was the truth.
Sometimes he would dream . . . soft pleasant dreams -- a nice change from the brutal twisted nightmares that he used have and still does, occasionally. These dreams have Lucrecia's face sometimes, as do his nightmares -- more often than not his nightmares are the ones that wear glasses on a small cute face with hair pulled back in a tail.
He must have slept too long for things to stay happily the way they were. He could feel it -- like a creaking crawling sensation in his bones: things are changing, people replacing memories.
He closed his eyes, immersed in blackness, and drift softly, peacefully . . .
Colors form and dance; dreams are forming. Weeks of this made him more comfortable with the sights, less disturbed by the lack of screaming and blood, the lack of a true reason and logic to this illusion. This is a dream, but not of Lucrecia. She had not visited him in a very long while.
Tonight, Vincent Valentine dreams of the sky, and a golden sun above.
Please, who else but a girl would think up such a oddly prissy symbol/boarder/thingy? (don't ask me why a quasi-pyramid is prissy, and promise me you won't tell Reno I think that)
Comments would be nice. Com'n, you know you wanna make me homicidal! Or squee in glee, depending upon your message. (Strangely, critiques do make me squee. Oo)