DISCLAIMER: I don't own gundam wing or any of it's characters

DISCLAIMER: I don't own gundam wing or any of it's characters. I don't even own my car so don't sue me*_*


BY: Lara_Winner

Opening my eyes I flinch from the bright sunlight pouring through my window. The sharp pain that flares through my head as my eyes drift shut is the only substantial proof that I'm awake. My mind is clear of thoughts and the dream I had the night before replays it's self in vivid detail.

Blood. It covered everything in the small room. The stone walls were splattered with red and the floor was puddle after puddle of deep crimson. A dripping sound echoed off the walls. Then the screaming started. Tortured scrams that carried the fear and pain of the person who voiced them. The room started to turn slowly bringing into view the child that was making the horrible noise. He was hanging, his arms bound at the wrist and tied to the meal pipe above him. All that could be seen was the boy's back, which was covered in long slashes, the ripped and torn flesh bleeding profusely. The puddle of blood beneath the boy's feet rippled every time another drop of blood fell from his torn body. The child head hung limply between his arms, the screams stopping as he finaly lost his voice and began gasping for breath. The room turned even more partially revealing the little boy's face. His swollen and bruised eyes were squeezed tightly shut and his split and cracked lips were open trying to drag in what air he could as his chest started to collapse from the pressure of his hanging position. His face was chalk white as the loss of blood was taking its toll on his small body. His hair was matted to his scalp with a mixture of blood and dirt. The boy lifted his head and with obvious effort tried to open his eyes. Then his body went completely limp as he lost the battle to stay conscience.

Suddenly the entire scene faded only to be replaced by a new scene. The war torn streets of a small town. The air carried the sound of gunfire and people's screams. Dead bodies littered the ground while those still living tried to escape the chaos of the attack. Amidst the panic a little girl knelt down beside the broken body of her mother. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks and her eyes showed her fear as clutched a battered teddy bear in her tiny arms. As another round of gunfire sounded, suddenly the child's body flew forward and landed sprawled across her mother's chest. In the center of her back a red circle spread through her thin shirt. Her little teddy bear was covered in her blood.

Then the scene was swallowed in darkness. Black, silent, oppressive darkness. There is no movement or sound to cause any distraction. Then the voices start.

"Hey, if you ain't got a name then what are we suppose to call you?"

"Watch and learn boy, this is what we do to traitors!"

"A soldier never has remorse. A soldier has no feelings."

"If you cry I'll make it hurt worse!"

"Shoot! Don't just stand there, shoot the damn kid!"

Each phrase spoken brings up the voice of its speaker in the darkness. With the final voice my eyes snap open.

Mercifully I am now awake.

As the dream fades from my mind I swallow the bile rising in my throat. Though I've seen the dream many times before it always effects me. It is a part of my past that I can't forget. The images are ingrained in my mind along with others equally as tormenting. I've seen and done so much that it's a wonder I'm able to function in the world around me at all. But I'm not scared at the thought of loosing myself to my personal prison. I can honestly say nothing frightens me.

I crawl out of bed and make my way to the bathroom. I brace my hands on the sink, as I look at my reflection in the small mirror. As always my face reveals nothing. I've heard it said that the eyes are the windows to the soul but my eyes are empty and lifeless. I have no soul to reflect. What I had was destroyed long ago and yet I have no remorse for what I lost. It's sad to admit but I have no reason to lie. But even though I have no remorse I still dislike what I've become. I never intended to become a soulless soldier. I only wanted to survive but now I wonder what I've survived for.

I shake my head and sigh. These are the constant thoughts that circle my mind. How do I justify my existence? I have nothing I can truly say belongs to me, not even a name. I have no emotions only borrowed reactions that I've observed on others. So again I ask myself what is my purpose. If I'm not alive then I should be dead but that won't even be granted me. I'm a survivor and I fight to stay alive but I wish for my death. There is no logic I can find in that concept. So why don't I end it myself? Because I'm not afraid to die and I want to feel something even if it is fear. I live with the hope that one day I will feel something. Physical pain has lost its grounding effect for me. It no longer substitutes the emotional void that consumes me. I can endure pain, I welcome pain, I understand pain, and it's the perfect representation of my existence. Pain exists but it is brief, intense, and easily forgotten. It has no deeper meaning that it's face value. There are no complexities to pain. You endure it and then it's gone. I had never thought of my life in those terms but I find they make sense. I offer nothing to those poor souls forced to endure my presence. To look at me you see my value. The emptiness I express is my meaning. I am not complex, I am nothing.

Vaguely I realize my hands have gripped the sink so hard that they've begun to cramp. Straightening myself I brush my teeth and head back to my room and begin to dress. I slip on my jeans and my shoes and as I'm bending over the mirror above my dresser catches my eye and in it I'm given a glimpse of the scars that cross my back. For a brief moment I wonder if the scars show in the clown outfit I have to wear for tonight's performance. Not that I care but this circus job is a brilliant cover and it would be a shame to scare the children on my second show.

I reach for my turtleneck and I find the clown mask lying on top of it. I pick up the mask and almost smile at the tear that is painted on the white surface. It's ironic that my mask should reveal my hopelessness. This like my faint smile is just another borrowed expression. A meaningless expression because its not from within. Anyone can smile but my smiles never reach my eyes. I prefer the mask to a smile; it's more truthful. Suddenly in my mind I see two images. The two people I've met worth remembering since I've landed on earth. Catherine Bloom and Quatre Rabberba Winner. Actually, they confuse me.

First there is Catherine who in my opinion tries too much to make everyone happy. I don't understand her reasoning. She's always smiling but her moods change drastically. I guess that comes from being a passionate person. I don't know. I've seen more emotions cross her face in a moment then I've seen on mine in my entire life. This just comes naturally to her and I admit I'm intrigued. Why is it so easy for her to feel so much? I'd love to know what her secret is, so maybe I could learn something from it. But I know emotions can't be learned, you can learn to express them but the emotion itself must exist on it's own.

Then there is Quatre. I don't think he should be a pilot. He's never seen the real horrors of war and he'll only get himself killed. He's too innocent and willing to trust anyone. But Quatre isn't as defenseless as he looks; he has the advantage if he's underestimated. You would never guess he's a genus when it comes to strategy. For the brief time I spent with him he explained some of the plans he made for attacks and I was stunned. This little kid could be dangerous if fighting dirty was his style. He would be an interesting enemy. I would have to watch him, he didn't seem like the type to lie but you can never trust anyone completely. Not even someone as kind as he seemed to be.

I stand up and pulling my shirt over my head, I exit my trailer. Bracing myself for the people I will have to put up with, the familiar words enter my mind. Never trust anyone. That's the best advice I've ever had to live by. It's kept me alive on more than one occasion. As a matter of fact, I don't even trust myself. I only have loyalty to my colony and I will kill anyone who gets in my way, even Catherine and Quatre if need be. My mission is simple, destroy the Alliance Military no matter what. And that's exactly what I'm going to do, even if it gives me a new collection of nightmares. Nothing will stop me. Nothing.

A.N. – Okay, this was really twisted, I know and I'm sorry. This is just how I thought Trowa felt in the beginning of the series. If I made it too confusing, the little boy who was whipped in his dream was himself, the little girl that was shot in the war he was forced to kill, and the voices were associated to those memories. That may give some insight as to why Trowa is so withdrawn. Okay, don't be afraid to tell me what you think, I'm sorry its so depressing and sadistic, but remember there is still hope for Trowa yet!!!!!! I may do a happy sequel!*_*