Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to its creators.
I feel a sense of myself crying out, agonized, loathing and longing for nostalgia. A bright blonde-colored nostalgia forgotten in the arms of a cold soldier. A whisper brush of warmth, butterfly kisses, to my unflinching nerves enough to cripple soundness. Colors. . .blending sunshine white, regal purple fabric, cotton pink, and stronger is the meeting of ocean and sky. If there ever was such a combination, the green sea foam licking edges of the oblivious blue world, it would be the color I see when I close my eyes.
I don't know who he is. . .who these green eyes belong to, the person behind the half clown mask. Little things set me off; the pitch of soft romantic music, Cathy demanded to the ringmaster after I experienced a particularly nasty onset of migraines to the noise, that radios be forbidden from our unit. Among other things, pieces of invading information. . .(maybe they are memories) attempting to chunk themselves together, a haphazard method at best.
And that violin…..
Sorry, the thought has occurred to me about disposing those instrumental tapes one of our other performers seems to favor during break. I'm not sure how much longer I can stand curling up into a fetal position on my bunk, allowing my body to succumb to an ungodly shivering despite the heat my dear sister can provide holding me steady as best as she can manage.
Nighttime is no better, I would prefer listening to the music straight on until my mind collapsed in on itself then dream another dream.
I would prefer the dreams of carnage and suffering dealt by my own blank hands than the erotic.
Reels of film, they appear, myself the outside observer of this limitless consummation. Beds of dirty rough wool, scented silk and candlelight dark, places nameless to me but identified by a common knowledge. A grand bedchamber stifled by desert atmosphere, a modest apartment (not owned by us? who is us?), and my own tent (no disruptions, Cathy made sure, was she angry with me? ). One inhabitant has the green eyes I find staring back at me through glass, mystified and permanent hurt in the mirror, but instead at that moment confident and affectionate to the eyes of ocean and sky. Wavy sweaty curls of bleached white, in some measure, shade a screwed up expression, dark and almost feminine eyelashes trembling with effort. I know the stranger with my eyes and the boy whimpering beneath him are engaging in sexual acts, that they are so young, but I also know the connection, a need to be close during times of war and fragile character.
But why does it pain me to watch? Is it jealously at the fact that they found whatever love was defined as, a spiritual completion, not just a merging of physicality but the merging of souls as well? Am I suppose to remember this? Is this memory harming me?
And then a word rolls past my lips.
I've acquired a small amount of teaching of different languages, best translated; it is the French term for the number four.
Significance holds a sinister choking understanding.