disclaimer: KH not mine.
notes: This is my two year celebration fic for fanfiction. It's been two years on - two years from being a reader to a writer.
And yes, I'm just getting into Sandman, because it's pretty awesome.
And I want to thank you all, the people I've met on here, because you all are awesome.
p.s: you may notice slight Xemnas/Aqua but if I explain there will be spoilers. And yes, this is Organization XIII centric.


tales from the Sandman
"What power would hell have if those imprisoned here would not be able to dream of heaven?"



Secretly, he regrets many things that he doesn't remember. Secretly, he hates those who do remember— so he tells them those lies (making those lies slither in their souls, telling them how worthless they are, telling them what they have to do, what they have to accomplish— he speaks of the weakness that hearts brings, when he himself has felt something akin to love.) There was once with girl, blue hair and ocean blue eyes whose name disappeared along with his heart.

Sometimes, somewhere— he thinks of that girl as the light to heaven.



He likes guns, he likes wide open spaces where he can shoot all his worries out, and drown them out with a quick shot of liquor. He likes to follow people, observe them— he likes to know their secrets, their sins; their skeletons in their closets. (Maybe because he's been betrayed way too often and when hiding those betrayals with cocky talk and smug language he finds it to be the only way to forget, to be strong. And he's just fine with that.) It's been so long, he doesn't care if he's betrayed. All that matters is the secrets they hide and the monsters in their heads.

But sometimes, he wonders how it would be like to actually care.



He's always been alone— there was silence, the sound of screaming, glass breaking, blood pouring and darkness. (But sometimes when he closes his eyes, he can see a pretty, pretty girl wash his wounds and sing— but she's gone, killed off by a couple of goons because of him. Despite telling himself that it was okay— the girl didn't mean a thing, but sometimes he thinks how nice it would be to feel soft hands taking care of him again) The years have passed, and he forgets. And suddenly he thrives on the pain.

There are times, when he appreciates kindness.



He isn't a coward— there is nothing to fear, but fear itself, but there are times when he doesn't even understand that old saying. (They have no idea what he has gone through, they don't know what fear really is— they don't know how it feels, the desperation building up and how it feels to be so scared that one will do anything, anything at all, even sell one's soul. Nor do they know the sweet smile of hope.) There are days when he tosses and turns at night and just simply thinks.

About how nice it would be to see the smile of hope, again.



They call him the silent hero, the sheep in wolf's clothing and all sorts of things that he doesn't bother with. He is an intellectual, he is solitary, and he doesn't trust anyone, but a select few of one. (There is a reason, the more people he trusts, the more pain there is in the world. It is better to be alone— than to be with another.) He keeps to himself within the walls, lost in his thoughts and purely alone.

But there are times when he dreams about a hands to hold and dreams to cherish.



He was only a boy when they found him— maybe that's why he could sympathize with the newest member, but any kindness he had must have disappeared through time. (He was only a boy when they found him, forced him to spill secrets— making him talk lies and truth and spit out blood. He was only a boy who had is family taken away from him because of knowledge— to learn the truths of this world as young as possible. But now he scoffs and smirks at the mere thought of family, because everything wonderful will escape one's grasp as quickly as it comes.

But even he can't deny those times when he wishes for a family.



He wishes to be truly human. A human with a heart— a human who could smile and have friends, he wants to be like he was before it all happened. He was just normal with friends and a silly silly grin and a cute little sister. Despite what he says, he remembers. He remembers his friend, who's still with him, just taking on the position as the furry of dancing flames. (They don't realize the importance of this, he thinks. He just wishes for the past, but every morning he wakes up to find the past to be just a dream.) The stoic nature is just an act, a façade; something to make him forget.

If that was the way life is, he just wants to keep dreaming, so he can keep remembering.



He's always been a good liar. But there is a limit and now it's hard to lie to himself that he doesn't care. (It's almost impossible to lie now, because that boy had changed him and made him back to the person he was, when he had a heart that he can't even believe that he cares now. But he still lies to himself and keeps that mask on.) And keeps burning the memories till they are reduced to ashes— till there is nothing left.

But he wishes for a hand sometimes.



He always wanted to be a rockstar. He always wanted to be a rockstar and take the world by storm. But he hides and smiles and laughs— it doesn't matter what they think of him. (Just needs his music, but his music burned that one day and there was this pretty girl who had a pretty voice and sometimes he danced with him and then she was gone with the music. And it stung.) But he acts differently from what he truly is, now he's lazy, a coward and simply doesn't care.

But he wishes he was that head strong, brave; caring person he once was.



He likes to gamble. He likes to gamble and bet and drink alcohol and tea and shout "off with their heads!" with the queen. He's older than he once was and he thinks he's no longer that free spirited youth blessed with the luck. (Once upon a time there was a boy with bloody brilliant luck, there was a boy that all the gods loved; there was a boy whose entire family was beheaded before his eyes when his luck ran out.) But he likes to taunt the gods, he still has luck, but the luck is darker now— tainted with signs of the devil.

There are those moments when he wished that the gods were on his side.



He's beautiful. He's beautiful and charming and simply corrupted. That's what they all would say if they saw him now. (There once was a beautiful child, who painters came to see, who men wished to be. And out of their jealously, a tragic thing was produced. His family was jailed, his house was burned and he was locked in a filthy old basement hidden, because they thought he was bewitched.) He's much crueler then he was then, because all he knows is that beauty creates pain.

But he misses those days when he could smile purely and innocently.



When she was a little girl, she thinks she fell in love. She thinks she fell in love with a charming young man, and sometimes she likes to imagine it. (But in reality that charming young man took off with her money and it was all she could do to stab him in plain sight and disappear.) Years and years has taught her that love simply doesn't exist anymore.

But sometimes when she thinks no one is looking, she still believes in love.



He's always going to rebel. He's always going to rebel. (The whole time he was there people were always keeping things from him, he can't even remember a thing— besides glimpses from a person that isn't even him. He doubts anyone understands him.) Because of their silence he left— there is no place for him in a world that lies, keeping secrets and thrives on deception and pain.

So he tries to fool himself, thinking that he does have a heart.


the end