Disclaimer: I don't own digimon. Duh. If think I do then you are a DOOFUS (question: is the plural of doofus doofuses or doofi?).
Okay, okay, enough with the funny stuff. This is a serious fic, so I'm going to at least attempt to make all (or at least most) of it sound serious instead of including all those little snippets of jokes that I usually do. It's also a one-off. I will probably never write anything like this again. Even though the... um... certain character this fic is about is a favourite of mine, there is only a limited amount of information of the certain character. So I've had to make things up. I'm expanding on the possibilities, really. And it's a POV (you'll probably guess whose by the end). Aw, what the heck, just read it!
I shouldn't have done it.
I think I knew, even when I was so miserable, that it wasn't the right thing to do. That I should have hung on. If I had known how terrible the consequences would be, I may never have gone ahead. It took all my courage and desperation as it was. I know now, though it's far too late. But what's done is done. And I can't deny that I was terribly unhappy. In a way (and I am ashamed to admit it) I am happier now. This existence, however strange and unpleasant at times, is nothing compared to the way things were before.
I was a genius. That's what they told me. Top marks in everything. The star of the school. And my parents, they were so proud to have such a wonderful, intelligent son. They were enjoying my success so much. The praise, the pride. The winning. So they began to expect me to be constantly doing better and better. They never pressured me into it, not at all.
It was worse than that.
If they had forced me, threatened me, punished me when I did badly, then it wouldn't have mattered. I would have been resentful and I would have fought back. But there was no way to fight their pride, or my own. The looks on their faces that day when I failed a test just killed me. It seemed to hurt them so much, when I failed. So I had to win, and keep on winning. Not for me, never for me. I didn't want to win, I wanted to be just like my friends, with nothing to worry about. But I forced, threatened and punished myself to keep on winning. For my parents.
Friends? Did I ever have friends? Maybe once, a long time ago. Before my teachers picked up on my 'genius' and I resolved to keep this winning streak up, so that my parents would never be disappointed. Once studying ruled every hour of my day and success became my life, there was really no room for friends. Sure, there were plenty of people who liked me, who wanted to be seen with the genius, but I just didn't have time for them. Oh, I how I wish I had made more time. If I had had friends they could have helped me when I was so troubled and none of this would ever have happened. But any friends I ever had would have long forgotten about me, as I have forgotten them.
Maybe I can't remember friends, but I can certainly remember my brother. I don't think he was very good at making friends either. So since we were both at home a lot we got to know each other and to like each other, which is more than a lot of siblings ever do. But just in the last year or so that we were together we seemed to grow further apart. I don't know whether it was me or him - probably both of us. But we just weren't that close anymore.
Then there was that fateful day, when the digivice arrived. To this day I still do not know which of us it was meant for. I wanted it for myself, I really did. There was something about it that almost seemed to be calling to me. I think my brother felt it too, or he never would have taken it. And then I took it from him.
That must have been the first - and last - time we ever fought. I think that was the day that I cracked. I can't say that it was his fault - I would have lost it anyway, what with the way I was torturing myself. We were both hurt by that fight, although neither of us said it. I was so confused, depressed too. So I went to my parents for help. They loved talking to me. They loved me too, I suppose. And it helped, it really did. I was almost ready to believe that things would be okay and that there was nothing wrong.
As I was walking to my room that night I brushed past my brother. And the look he gave me was worse than anything that he could have said. This wasn't the same brother who I had shared my life with, played with, cared for for as long as I can remember. He must have loved me, somewhere underneath it all. But all I saw on his face then was hate. He hated me. My own brother hated me.
Even while this was happening I was telling myself that I didn't have time to feel hurt. All the time I was putting into study meant that I had no time to really think about what I was doing. Whether it was healthy to be this... obsessed. Perhaps I had gotten to the stage when I didn't really care whether I lived or died, just so long as I won. So long as I could meet my parents' high expectations and my own even higher ones, I myself didn't really matter. To me... or to them
I honestly believed that my parents didn't really love me. They loved their genius, not their son. And when my brother turned against me it was the last straw. Nobody loved me, I thought. It was an upsetting thought. So upsetting that I wasn't able to concentrate on my work. If I couldn't work then I wouldn't win. If I didn't win, there was no reason to live.
No way out.
Or was there?
It was a few days later, while I was eating breakfast, that I saw something in the newspaper that my dad was reading. I don't usually read anything in the newspaper. Just a waste of time, I thought. What did I care what the rest of the world's problems were. Something caught my eye, a photograph of a boy who had died. Why do photos of dead people always look so grainy and distorted? It makes them look like they're from an whole different world. I read the article, anyway. This boy, he was even younger than me. Some kid from an average family. Nothing unusual. Except that he had killed himself. Someone said he had some sort of problem, a mental one. He seemed perfectly normal but whatever it was slowly drove him so mad that he just couldn't stand living any longer.
Was there something wrong with me, too? For the first time in my life I wondered if this obsession of mine was really so normal. I'd never thought there was anything strange about it. But then, I had never known anything else. I'd never known what my life could be like if I wasn't always working so hard. If I didn't worry so much about what my parents thought of me. If I talked to other people once in a while.
No, I wasn't normal. I was going mad, just like that boy in the newspaper. Oh, this wasn't right! I was supposed to be good. Perfect. All this work I put in, how could it all be ruined like this? Geniuses weren't supposed to be insane. They were smart. I couldn't be mad.
My parents wouldn't like it.
But I was and it was painfully obvious to me now. I had never studied psychology, but I didn't need a textbook to figure out that I was different. My parents would be hurt if they found out, but I couldn't hide this forever. There was only one way that things could be right, and that was if I did what that boy in the paper did. If I died. I couldn't make it look like suicide, though. No drugs, no knives, no note. My parents would blame themselves then. It would hurt them. I didn't want to hurt them.
I still remember that day so clearly. How could I forget? The last day of my life.
It began as any other. Up at five for a little early morning study, a ritual that had dominated most of my life. It seems so pointless now but even when I knew the end was coming I couldn't resist the need to make my parents proud. Then there was breakfast, with the rest of the family. Talking to mum and dad, although they never really understand what I'm talking about. My parents don't understand me? There's the understatement of the year. And my brother looking at me from across the table, a resentful look on his face. I'd always eaten lightly, just rice and some orange juice. After that it was time to leave.
I remember standing at the door and saying goodbye. To the apartment I had lived in all my life. To the demons in my head. To my parents, who had unwittingly pushed me so far. But it wasn't goodbye to my brother yet. Not quite.
Feeling suddenly free I practically flew down the stairs to the bottom of the building, smiling and even talking to a few people along the way. Strange that all my life I had been oblivious to the people around me but I should notice them just as I'm ready to leave. Some of the older people were able to understand some of my really complex ideas, which was quite liberating after living with my relatively simple parents. There were kids my age too. Some of the girls were quite keen to talk, but I didn't know what to say. I'd been out of touch with people too long to start now.
It wasn't far to go now. Just a short dash down the stairs and I would have reached the end of my path. I could already hear the roar of the traffic. I gripped the handrail at the top of the stairs, feeling a little nervous now that the moment had finally arrived. Just get it over and done with, as fast as you can. DO IT! So I ran. All the way down the stairs, gaining speed as I went. I reached the end and let my own momentum carry me away from the footpath and out onto the road.
Tyres screeching as the driver saw me. Too late, of course, but he had to try. The impact, so hard it was as if I'd run into a wall. I was sent flying through the air, only to come crashing back down. There was an awful crunch as the impact snapped my spine clean in two, and probably a few other bones as well. The pain was terrible. I had known it would be, I suppose, but not in my most terrible nightmares could I have imagined this sort of torture. It enveloped me, took over my body and my mind. I couldn't see the people milling around or hear their panicked voices. I was too close to death to ever be brought back now.
A voice suddenly cut through the haze. I could still answer to my own name. With a huge effort I managed to get one last glimpse at the world around me, and I saw him. Ken was standing at the top of the stairs, staring in horror. Right then I knew that I was wrong. He did love me, not as a genius or a winner but as his brother. Ken loved me after all.
And then I was gone.
I am still here in spirit, of course. Now I am free from the horror that had driven me for my entire life. I know now that my parents didn't love Osamu the genius nearly as much as Osamu their son. I know that my family weren't the only ones who cared about me. I know that I had a part to play in the digital world and had I stayed much of what has happened there would never have taken place. Although even if I had not died and Ken had never been the Kaiser then another enemy would have risen instead. That is the way of the digital world - the battle between good and evil never ceases.
Ken has grown more than I ever could have expected. Although he fell into the same trap I did he was still alive to escape it. Although his first experiences in the digital world were none too pleasant he rose up to save us all in the end. He has friends now, too, the best friends anyone could ever ask for. There are Taichi, Yamato, Sora, Koushiro, Mimi and Jyou, older children to guide him. Iori, the little boy who is wise beyond his years. Miyako with her big mouth who can cheer up just about anyone. Takeru and Hikari, who both know the world of darkness just as Ken does. Wormmon, who, although he loves ken dearly, may still have been meant for me.
And Daisuke. Most of all there is Daisuke. He has to be the best friend Ken will ever have. Whenever my brother is having trouble, if he was scared or doubtful or depressed Daisuke will always help him through it. He can get through to Ken like no-one else ever has or ever will. They are certainly the best of friends. Maybe, someday, even more than that.
What I did was wrong, but there is no way of going back now. The world has found a way to go on without me. I am sorry for what I have done, although even now I see no way that I could have gone on living the way I had been. I have a different role now, watching over Ken and the other digidestined. Waiting until the day that we will be together once more. Then I will finally be able to tell you, Ken.
I loved you too.
First of all, do not EVER expect me to repeat that.
Secondly, most of this was written during one of my rare and disturbing moments
of partial insanity (I'm not joking) which result from a lack of sleep and too
much thinking. Thirdly, I really don't think it's possible that Osamu was
mentally ill and decided to kill himself. I'm just expanding on what we
already (don't) know.
I hope I haven't depressed anyone too badly. Everyone feels suicidal at some point in their lives, but actually DOING it is another matter. I'll see you later, hopefully with a fic that is much more humourous. Bye!