Title: Scarred, But Still Beautiful
Summary: He saved me because he thought I was pretty, but I am not pretty anymore. If I am not pretty, he will not love me. Therefore, I have nothing left to life for.
Feedback: Yes please, yay reviews!
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach or the characters I'm just borrowing them for fun.
Rating: PG-13 for some gore.
Warnings: Slash, don't like, don't read.
Beta: DevilChild13, thanks a ton
Author's Note: So, just an idea I got. The first of my many Bleach ideas to actually get written. Yes, I realize that they're rather OOC, but, as I said, my first Bleach fic. And also I have been plagued all week with the WORST writer's block, so honestly I'm just glad that I was able to write SOMETHING. Due to these reasons, I will ask you to please be kind, and don't forget to review!
It is dark. It is cold. But I do not care. As I curl in on myself, pulling farther and farther into the shadows, I know little more than the pain that fills me. And I think of him.
I do not know how badly hurt I really am. Were I to get medical attention immediately perhaps I would not die, but I will not get medical attention, for the only thing of any value to me is lost, and therefore, I have no reason to live.
I am sitting in a pool of blood, my own blood. I feel it, coursing down my arm, my legs, my chest, my face. I hear an ominous crack of thunder above me, and know that soon the rain will come to wash me away. I smell the rancid odor of my own blood and sweat, mingling with the muck of the foe I had just defeated. I taste it on the air, along with the rain that will soon come.
But I cannot see anything. My sight has been lost to an empty red haze. I do not know if my eyes themselves are damaged, or if my eyes have simply been filmed by blood. I have not the strength, nor interest, to attempt to clear my vision, because either way, it does not matter.
I huddle, with my back pressed against a tree, my knees folded to my chest. Blood slowly drips down my face, mingling with the raindrops that are just beginning to fall, in my lap. This blood comes from the wounds that are killing me.
Yes, though they are shallow, my life is slowly being drained away through three, simple gashes slanting across my face. The face that I prize so much.
Yes, I, Yumichika Ayasegawa am dying, because I am no longer beautiful.
As I sit here, waiting for the end to come, I think back to that day, the day that beauty first entered my life.
It was a long time ago, I was very young then. I was small and delicate, and constantly bullied for being girly.
That day, I had been jumped on by a gang of punks. I remember, staring up at the sky and praying for the pain to stop, struggling just to stay conscious. Then, my prayers were answered. They were answered in the form of a stocky, ill tempered, bald young man.
I remember as he helped me to my feet, asking me if I was alright.
"Yes," I lied. "Thank you."
"Ah, it was nothing," he said, brushing it off. "I only did it 'cause I thought you were pretty. Besides, it's not like I could just ignore a lady getting' beat up like that."
At that I had laughed a little, and pointed out that I was no lady. To that he had blushed furiously, and muttered, "Well, I still think you're pretty."
And that was how true beauty entered my life. I remained close to him, insisting that I had to repay my debt to him. I don't think he really minded my presence as much as he pretended to, and eventually he stopped complaining about my following him all together. Since that day we've hardly been separated, and I wouldn't have had it any other way.
So now as I lay, bleeding, I think of him. It doesn't really hurt anymore; I can hardly feel anything anymore. It's all beginning to fade away.
A part of me wished I could see him once more, but a large part is glad that he can't see me this way, that he can't see me ugly.
I'm aware, dimly, of the rain soaking my clothes, and leaving my hair stringy and limp in my face. I am also dimly aware that my head has fallen into my lap, but I no longer have the strength to hold it up. I am dimly aware that I am cold. I am dimly aware that I should be feeling more pain than I am. I am dimly aware of his voice calling me.
Was it really him? Had he come looking for me? Or was it just my imagination playing tricks on me as my mind begins to fail?
I am dimly aware of his hands touching me, his voice calling all the more urgently now. I feel his hand on my shoulder; he is trying to get me to sit up.
"No," I mutter distantly, but the word comes out as slurred and misshapen as my mouth it.
"Yumi? Yumi! Answer me!" He is yelling, he is afraid. I've never known him to be afraid before. "Come on, feather-brain, sit up!"
"No," I say again.
This time he hears me, and it calms him down, just a little. "Why?" he asks in surprise.
"Because I'm ugly," I whisper back. My ears have gone fuzzy, and though I know my voice is soft, I cannot be sure if it is too soft for him to hear or not.
"So?" he asks petulantly.
"If you see me you'll leave me," I say. I feel more water sliding down my ruined face, it is not rain, but then, what is it? Am I crying?
"Huh?" I am making no sense to him. How does he not understand what this means?
"You only saved me because I was pretty," I say, "I'm not pretty any more." I have explained it perfectly, but I can sense that he is still confused. It is beginning to annoy me, how can he be so slow? How can he not understand? "You only love me because I'm pretty. Since I'm not pretty anymore, you'll leave me."
"Is that what you think?" I can't tell what he is feeling. I must really be far gone now, usually I know every thought that passes through that bald head of his, or at least, I believe I do.
He moves around so that he is kneeling directly in front of me and grabs my shoulders, forcing me to sit up. I resist, but am too weak to stop him, so instead I hang my head, hoping that he will not see too much. My hopes are futile as he grabs my chin, surprisingly gentle, and forces my face up.
I hear his small gasp, and am suddenly glad that my sight has failed me. I do not want to know the look of horror on his face; I do not want to see his loathing for the ugly beast I have become.
I expect him to draw away, tell me how hideous I am. I do not expect him to gently wipe the hair from my face, I do not expect him to caress my scarred cheek, but that's what he does.
I feel the breath hiss through my teeth, but not in pain as he believes, but in surprise, in wonder.
"It's true," he murmurs, putting his hand in my hair again, "You aren't pretty."
I turn my face away because I know its true, but he grabs my chin again, forcefully stopping me.
"You're beautiful." At these words I stare at him, or at least I would be if I could see.
"I-I-I'm what?" I breathe.
"You're beautiful," he repeats, and with that he pulls me gently into his arms and cradles my broken body.
I lay in his arms in shock. "You aren't going to leave?" I ask.
"Never," he promises, "Idiot," he adds.
"You-you still love me?"
I break down. I am sobbing in his arms, the pain of my body tearing through me. I now realize that I am cold, and wet, and shivering, and bleeding. I now realize that my body is broken and I am fading away. But for the moment, I don't care. For the moment I feel the most joy I have felt in my entire life. I feel joy because the man I love loves me, even though I'm not pretty anymore.