Different this time, written in 1st POW because it came out of my head as such. Bit of a stream of consciousness and stuff.
This is actually something I've wondered for a while and it demanded to be written. I mean it's canon that Shiro is all the things that Ichigo denies in himself but that kind of self denial would be really hard to actually accomplish. So in my head, Shiro seems to be actually some kind of a filter. We know that Ichigo's a bit emotionally stunted, and I figured that with all the things he's gone through as a human, he'd be more bitter, but he's not. *dramatic voice* Would an emerging, evil second personality be the cause?
Disclaimer: Give me F, give me A, give me N, give me FAN, give me F, give me I… give me FANFICTION from BLEACH! and I aint talking about ventilation and whitening products.
Warning! not humorous at all… actually kinda angsty. Damn.
Did you ever wonder, King? How you protect. I mean, the way that you use your abilities and the way they work. So powerful when you're righteous in your cause.
"I will save them. I will protect."
You abandoned fear and grew strong in your power, all with good intentions. Oh Kiiiing… you know what road is pawed with those, don't you? But there were always signs of that. And you know that well, but refused to pay attention to them.
Did you ever wonder why I exist. You used to be such a sensitive child, so easy to make you cry. Innocent.
It all went away with Mother. The shock you felt at the blood covering you was my first heartbeat. Your tears dried at that night. The remains of the part of you, dead with Mother, created me. You started feeling anger that hadn't been there before. The other children didn't feel your sorrow and mocked you for it. It had to be discarded, or they would use it against you. You fed it to me and the remains turned into something like a pathological anger at the world. The only sorrow you felt was at anniversaries and even that twisted with endless guilt. To you, guilt is synonymous with grief, thus you protect. You didn't feed your guilt to me so I can't turn it into the anger that fuelled my existence at that time. You cherished it instead.
But you were quite content to beat back all your opponents, human at the time. They resented you for things you had no control over. You learned to hate them right back. I encouraged that hate, it gave me power over you. Enabled me to be. When you fed the anger again to me, beating them up became an exciting sport to you. Let them come.
"I'll teach them pain."
I have always taken in your emotions and turned them into something easier to handle. Could you even live without me? At some point you'd realized that feeling positive feelings about beating people up wasn't healthy. You never told your, our, father about that one trip to the school psychologist after you'd gotten yourself caught beating up a group of boys for insulting you hair again (or more like you entire existence). She'd talked for a long time about how fighting wasn't good and delinquents like you should really be handled with more force. You'd told her that it was them that started it. What they'd said to you. And they'd said a lot. She dismissed you straight up. It had been you who was left standing, after all. She would have believed you if you'd have come to her with bruises, bearing stories of harsh bullying.
Except they weren't stories. At the time the bullying had been non-stop and they'd tried everything from childish pranks to outright group beatings. But you refused to submit to them.
The psychologist had an image of a bullied kid in her head. A bullied kid was broken and weak, a desperate little thing that made itself small and invisible so it wouldn't be noticed. Someone whose self image she could improve and strengthen with clichéd words. She told you as much (not the clichéd part. She'd used some fancy word for that). She'd refused to believe that someone like you, who drew blood mercilessly from your opponents, could be bullied. It was clearly your fault. It had to be. She'd ranted about it for ages. Behind her had been some kind of a trophy with a reflective surface. You'd seen it over her shoulder. On it you saw mirrored your scowling face. You scowled even harder when you realized you were happy for beating them up. That was what delinquents felt like. But you weren't a victim either.
You decided to be a punisher instead. It wasn't a conscious decision. I had eaten your feeling of injustice and twisted it to something more appropriate. Punishers didn't enjoy what they did so you could be at peace again. Again I enabled you to function in peace from your guilt that you refused to abandon. Stupid King.
But you wanted retribution from the woman as well, so you'd fixed your eyes to hers, stared at her for so long she finally paid attention to you. Then you'd smiled (for the first time in months, but she didn't know that). She'd frozen to the spot.
After Mother died, smiling had become difficult. You had started to prefer smirks instead, since they were spontaneous and thus more real. They also had less emotional significance. That's a good thing in your book. In mine too.
In your room you practiced your smile. You knew what it was supposed look like, sunny and sweet. But every attempt, even those where you thought happy things and actually felt some spark of happiness, even those turned looking cold and too wide. (Not so far from mine King. You should realize already that everything that I am comes from you.) For some reason your smiles had turned something twisted that terrified even yourself.
So of course she'd frozen, even stopped breathing. At that point I had gained some vestige of control and had stood up from the chair. You were so angry and so was I. At that point we were in a way, one person.
"In that case then, maybe you should go counsel the victims instead. Don't bother telling my dad. I'm sure, since I'm such a delinquent, that he already knows."
She didn't tell of course. You were ten at the time. Come on, who'd be afraid of a ten year old?
A zanpaktuou is a reflection of its owner. You didn't question how your own blade has no guardit's not meant to guard! or how it really is only good for widespread destruction.
Slice the heavens, indeed.
The old man's kinda boring, isn't he? He's got just that sort of authority you respect, the silent kind. He's cold too. He is not moved by your friends, he only cares about you. His sympathy, the little he has, is reserved only for you. His eyes watch, evaluate you and everything around you. He lives for the fight.
"Retreat and you will age."
Does that mean that deep down you are a cold, sharp edge (that not many could even hope to handle)? Doesn't matter,
I can twist it into strength.
It's not funny at all….. *pouts* Wrote it in one sitting. So does it evoke thoughts? I have a tendency to view things rather darkly. I know it's repeating some of the stuff I've hinted at in the earlier chapters…. (I went back to read some of them in the fear that I'm just a broken record.) So… Happy new year.