Home.
A place full of warmth, of security. Somewhere he knew he could always go if he needed to withdraw and think. Or even just a place to relax. No worry of scrutiny from outside eyes. When he was young, he'd always run back home, back to his mother, where nothing could possibly touch him and shh, everything would be alright.
However, it was strange how quickly the feeling of a word can change in one's mind, on one's tongue. It now felt dusty, like the thick layer of gray that had settled over his belongings (a now past life). Sheets were strewn over the furniture like ghosts of a place that once mattered more than anything. The walls fe
It had rained the day he died.
He could only recall it in snippets, mind clouded by a feverish haze. The light tap tap tap of drops of water as they rapped against his window. There were worried and anxious faces that slid in and out of focus; Nanny Aldrina here, Mister Jarvin there. He remembers them trying to say something to him, but the words became lost, drowned out by the shuffle of bedclothes being rearranged and a clattering tea set (his mother's favorite). Sounds became more distant— after how much time, he didn't know. Vision blurred, breathing stalled, and numbness crept into his limbs. Soon, the only noise he could hear was the p
They've grown up, he thinks, as he watches from the sideline of a battle. One of many they've had, and certainly not their last. There's blood running down his chin, a mistake that will scar over in the coming weeks. But what hasn't killed him will only make him stronger.
The same goes for the family.
With each push, they get faster. Each scar, harder. Every time they're knocked down, better. Soon no one will be able to catch up, not even these men in black or white. Millefiore had nothing on them, Yamamoto knew. There was no passion in the eyes of those they fight.
No trust.
Only fear.
They fought for a leader they'd probably never met.
I've asked myself, many times, "What if he never met you"? Would I have filled in the space?
Or would you have found someone else like him? Not like him? And if you did, what if it ended in tatters? Ended up crashing and burning, like a ship against the cliffs.
Would you have run to me, in the aftermath?
To me, so I could pick up the pieces and put you back together.
Or would you stand straight and act like nothing happened? Like it was insignificant, even though it hurt, hurt so bad. It would be so like you to do that, it really would. And if it ever happened, I'd want you to do just that.
Why?
Because I don't think I'd be strong enoug
There is a girl
who is blind
but not
She sees only
as far as she likes
and even then
it is ghosts
of a past
buried
gone
exhausted
There is a girl
bitter, she clings
to a thing
that has no place
she does not know
how to get rid of it
so it stays
here
now
There is a girl
who trusts
but does not
she lets defeat
sink in
without noticing
There is a girl
who needs to
believe in herself
There is a girl
she is incomplete
Think normal.
Think plain.
Move along, nothing to see here. It should be my motto, for how many times I've embodied the phrase. People, I've learned, only saw what they wanted to see. And what they wanted to see, was usually very far from the truth.
That only makes my job that much easier.
See, being a spy has this sort of, well, flair to it. And not the kind that has been stereotyped over the years. Trust me on this, wearing all black and creeping around in alleys and on rooftops is a strange sight for anyone. Even if you do it at night.
Spying, in my personal view, is advanced form of playing pretend combined with an unholy urge to sno
He moves with the fluid grace of water.
The outside of him is smooth and undisturbed-- placid. Much like a wide, steadily flowing river. There are only the smallest of ripples on the surface, bare hints that what may lie under the surface is something more. But the water is clouded, no one can know how far the depths reach, or even what sits on the bottom of their next step.
It could be jolting, unexpected, then, if the rushing sensation (swift and unerring) of the tide carries them under.
They would struggle to bring themselves to the top, fingers grasping and clutching at the murky-seeming sky above them. So close, and yet so far. Some a