My Memories - Fic
Title: My Memeories
Author: Firerose1300
Rating/worksafe: T/yes
Words: 1118ish
Warning(s): Character death.
Summary: Yukimura loses his memories, and everything seems to follow, until he had nothing.
My Memories
His hands were big, more than an inch bigger than my own, and warm. He was patient too, even when I was struggling, even though he seemed rough around the edges. He visited everyday and was kind and gentle when reminding me of names and things that I just couldn't seem to keep a hold of. He must have told me his name a thousand times. I somehow feel as though I cause him a lot of grief though. He always had dark circles under his eyes and even though he was large he always seemed to be getting thinner and thinner. Even now, I still can't remember his name.
He wasn't the only visitor of course but he always came, every day, and always by himself. There were six other people besides the man and woman who call themselves my parents. There was a white-haired boy who always has this air of being up to something. I can't seem to figure him out because he's always doing nice things but never gets close and never comes into personal contact with anyone, except the brown-haired boy with glasses. The brown-haired boy with glasses was always with the white-haired boy, they're very close I think. The brown-haired boy was the epitome of polite and calm, never a hair out of place and dressed like he was forever in a business meeting. They both were strange and somehow they complimented each other. Then there was the other brown haired boy who never opened his eyes. He lived in a world of percentages and precision, he was able to read my mind I thought. Most of the time a younger boy with messy black hair came with him, the boy with black hair was childlike but energetic and friendly. Lastly there was a boy with pink hair and his bald companion, the boy with pink hair always brought cake and sweets and his companion had a deep voice, I liked them a lot because they brought less excitement and trouble.
One day the capped boy did not visit, I was worried but someone assured me that he merely had a cold. I didn't worry for a while after that but one day quickly became one week and that week became almost a month. No one gave me a straight answer, they wouldn't look me in the eyes and usually made an excuse to leave fast. The white-haired boy, however, visited alone on a random day of the week. He made sure no one was outside and shut the door. He spoke in a quiet voice telling me what really happened. The capped boy died. He had been sick for a while with little things, colds, the flu, the stomach virus. His body wasn't strong enough to fight pneumonia when he caught it, slowly he faded away and died quietly as if he were just in a very peaceful sleep. I barely knew him and yet some instinct told me that it was the most awful thing anyone could ever tell me and tears rolled softly over my cheeks, I had no idea where they came from. The white haired boy gently touched the crown of my head, slightly ruffling the hair there. He left me alone to cry for the capped boy. Later when he came back with the brown haired boy he pretended nothing happened and when I tried to talk about it he just put a finger to his lips when the brown haired boy couldn't see.
Not long after I was discharged from the hospital to try and regain my memories from before, the doctors said that a familiar place may help with the recovery process. People make a point to visit often, trying to spark any small memories. I did remember a few things about my home but nothing about the group of boys or the capped boy. Although I had tons of pictures of them on the walls and in frames and a selection of newspaper clippings and some miscellaneous stuff in a scrap book, I remembered nothing about them. They always bring things with them and I can't even think that all this was from my past, the person they talk about in the articles seems like some sort of great hero, I don't feel like a hero. I feel sad and helpless. I look in the eyes of the boys who visit me, they're waiting for the return of their king, the old me. The person who could lead them back to victory. I couldn't do that in my state and an odd instinct told me I couldn't do it without the capped boy.
Years passed, nothing entered my memories. One by one they gave up. One by one they stopped coming. Hope faded quickly in the eyes of those around me. Doctors, parents, and those boys. They were the last to give up but eventually they did too, seeing as I would not regain my old self and could not build a new self with what I had left. Day after day, week after week, moth after month, year ofter year. They stopped visiting. Until the only one who came to visit was the mess black haired boy who had hope in his eyes till the end. I knew the last day I would see him as soon as he stepped in the door. There was no hope in his eyes, it was replaced by sadness and regret. Before he left, I held him tight and apologized so many times. He left without a word after crying into my shoulder. After that nothing went right, and no one visited, I became dreary and reclusive, so much so that my parents sent me away.
That's how I came to be here an old man who didn't collect anything over the years. Now much more tiered and silent than ever. I gaze out the window upon the streets that are dead silent. I wonder what ever happened to those eight boys and what ever happened to my family. I wonder and wait. I think I've always been waiting, for the boy in the black cap, I think he was the key to what I could not remember. Now, it becomes harder to remember him even. As a nurse comes to wheel me somewhere something seems to come to mind. A name, I shake my head, it's not worth it now to remember, it would be, hard. The name fades back to the lock in my memories and disappears and once again I'm left to wonder.
Author: Firerose1300
Rating/worksafe: T/yes
Words: 1118ish
Warning(s): Character death.
Summary: Yukimura loses his memories, and everything seems to follow, until he had nothing.
My Memories
His hands were big, more than an inch bigger than my own, and warm. He was patient too, even when I was struggling, even though he seemed rough around the edges. He visited everyday and was kind and gentle when reminding me of names and things that I just couldn't seem to keep a hold of. He must have told me his name a thousand times. I somehow feel as though I cause him a lot of grief though. He always had dark circles under his eyes and even though he was large he always seemed to be getting thinner and thinner. Even now, I still can't remember his name.
He wasn't the only visitor of course but he always came, every day, and always by himself. There were six other people besides the man and woman who call themselves my parents. There was a white-haired boy who always has this air of being up to something. I can't seem to figure him out because he's always doing nice things but never gets close and never comes into personal contact with anyone, except the brown-haired boy with glasses. The brown-haired boy with glasses was always with the white-haired boy, they're very close I think. The brown-haired boy was the epitome of polite and calm, never a hair out of place and dressed like he was forever in a business meeting. They both were strange and somehow they complimented each other. Then there was the other brown haired boy who never opened his eyes. He lived in a world of percentages and precision, he was able to read my mind I thought. Most of the time a younger boy with messy black hair came with him, the boy with black hair was childlike but energetic and friendly. Lastly there was a boy with pink hair and his bald companion, the boy with pink hair always brought cake and sweets and his companion had a deep voice, I liked them a lot because they brought less excitement and trouble.
One day the capped boy did not visit, I was worried but someone assured me that he merely had a cold. I didn't worry for a while after that but one day quickly became one week and that week became almost a month. No one gave me a straight answer, they wouldn't look me in the eyes and usually made an excuse to leave fast. The white-haired boy, however, visited alone on a random day of the week. He made sure no one was outside and shut the door. He spoke in a quiet voice telling me what really happened. The capped boy died. He had been sick for a while with little things, colds, the flu, the stomach virus. His body wasn't strong enough to fight pneumonia when he caught it, slowly he faded away and died quietly as if he were just in a very peaceful sleep. I barely knew him and yet some instinct told me that it was the most awful thing anyone could ever tell me and tears rolled softly over my cheeks, I had no idea where they came from. The white haired boy gently touched the crown of my head, slightly ruffling the hair there. He left me alone to cry for the capped boy. Later when he came back with the brown haired boy he pretended nothing happened and when I tried to talk about it he just put a finger to his lips when the brown haired boy couldn't see.
Not long after I was discharged from the hospital to try and regain my memories from before, the doctors said that a familiar place may help with the recovery process. People make a point to visit often, trying to spark any small memories. I did remember a few things about my home but nothing about the group of boys or the capped boy. Although I had tons of pictures of them on the walls and in frames and a selection of newspaper clippings and some miscellaneous stuff in a scrap book, I remembered nothing about them. They always bring things with them and I can't even think that all this was from my past, the person they talk about in the articles seems like some sort of great hero, I don't feel like a hero. I feel sad and helpless. I look in the eyes of the boys who visit me, they're waiting for the return of their king, the old me. The person who could lead them back to victory. I couldn't do that in my state and an odd instinct told me I couldn't do it without the capped boy.
Years passed, nothing entered my memories. One by one they gave up. One by one they stopped coming. Hope faded quickly in the eyes of those around me. Doctors, parents, and those boys. They were the last to give up but eventually they did too, seeing as I would not regain my old self and could not build a new self with what I had left. Day after day, week after week, moth after month, year ofter year. They stopped visiting. Until the only one who came to visit was the mess black haired boy who had hope in his eyes till the end. I knew the last day I would see him as soon as he stepped in the door. There was no hope in his eyes, it was replaced by sadness and regret. Before he left, I held him tight and apologized so many times. He left without a word after crying into my shoulder. After that nothing went right, and no one visited, I became dreary and reclusive, so much so that my parents sent me away.
That's how I came to be here an old man who didn't collect anything over the years. Now much more tiered and silent than ever. I gaze out the window upon the streets that are dead silent. I wonder what ever happened to those eight boys and what ever happened to my family. I wonder and wait. I think I've always been waiting, for the boy in the black cap, I think he was the key to what I could not remember. Now, it becomes harder to remember him even. As a nurse comes to wheel me somewhere something seems to come to mind. A name, I shake my head, it's not worth it now to remember, it would be, hard. The name fades back to the lock in my memories and disappears and once again I'm left to wonder.