To those who don't know me, nice to meet you in this fake cyberworld.
To those who know me, wassap?
This is my first advancship fic, I personnaly don't very much like Satoshi and his peronality in the anime. So I made him a little bit (fine, very) OCC. Age: Satoshi - 18, Haruka -18.
This fic is different from the last one, this is much more serious and dark. it will get shippy later on, but not the fluffy stuff you would normally get. I repeat, this fic is very serious so shippers beware!
Rate: Pg - 13
So... this it! enjoy this chap and R x R. Constructive critisizim graciously accepted, flame or unintelligent posts done by 3 years olds laughed at.
Chapter 1 – Aimless Wonderer
Anything that happens, happens.
Anything that happens causes something else to happen.
And cause something else to happen.
And something else…
But all of the things that happened don’t occur in a specific order.
He is just another fallen man, with his huge yet empty eyes, dark, oily and messy hair which covered half of his scarred face. He wore a dark, ripped shirt and faded blue cargo pants. Everything about him was so plain, obnoxious and uninteresting. He sat at the corner of a small, poorly lighted room, with a bottle of nameless vodka in hand. He looked sadly, hopelessly, and pathetically lonely.
“This sucks.” He stated simply, in a tone that could make anyone express sympathy.
Taking another shot at his vodka, the man looked out to the window. It portrayed people running hysterically in the rain. Each with their own destination, each with their own goals, own dreams, own hopes and beliefs. He hated these people, they always reminded him of someone he could, or used to be.
The grey clouds concreted into densely distributed clusters, taking up the sapphire sky which was meant for the sun to shine, much like his life. The man hated the clouds. He also hated the sun. He hated everyone, everything. He hated the vodka he’s drinking; they poison his mind as well as prohibit him from being normal and healthy. He hated the small, dusty window; it always attracted light from coming in, hurting his dull, empty eyes. He especially hated himself, because it always gave him reasons to hate everything else more fiercely.
What time is it? He wondered. He gazed lazily at the clock on the wall. He can see the shorter needle positioned it self comfortably between the number five and six. He cannot see clearly where the longer needle was with all the alcohol clouding his mind. It is five… something right now, the man thought. He tried to stand up, yet fell down. Finally deciding to rest, he crawled to his bed and pulled the blanked over his body, knocking over a few empty bottles.
He did not dream of sorrow, guns, fights, jails or alcohol. He did not dream of broke hearts, dull eyes nor faces covered with tears. He simply dreamt of himself. Simply (what a word) of who he used to be. The young man was handsome, friendly, courageous and optimistic. The man in his dream was so falsely perfect, that he had trouble telling who it was.
And then it happened.
He woke up, he just woke up. He did not cry, for tears are seldom these days. He got up and went to the toilet to relieve himself. Satisfied, he sat on his chair, gazing out the window once again. The rain stopped, and sun finally was able to penetrate the clouds.
Murmuring, he opened another bottle of vodka, in fact, his last one. He did not worry about where or how is he able to get more. He did not live for tomorrow, because he never expect himself to reach there. As long as he is satisfied with his current situation, this clearly is false right now.
“This really sucks.” He stated once again, except this time with more determination.
Is this what life meant to be? Drinking and sleeping? Is that his destined fate?
It does not matter. He decided.
Why am I alone? Why can’t I live like the others? Am I different?
I’m not different, only forgotten.
Was I always like this? If so, then why am I born? Why do I have to suffer? Why am I always tormented? What is the point of living, when the option of death is so much more preferable?
Confused and angry, he got up, yet was forced to sit down by the forces of gravity and alcohol combined. I shouldn’t get angry. He thought, I shouldn’t get angry with all the wine I drank. Anger, like all the other emotions, is completely useless. How many bottle did I drink today? Three? Four?
It does not matter.
Nothing mattered to him anymore. All the inquiry is unnecessary. He is the forgotten. He is the oppressed. He is the fallen. He has no one to blame, he does not need anyone to blame. Maybe this is how it goes; it is all a part of the twisted wheel of fate.
Defeated, he got up and headed to the general direction of the bed. The bed is always easy; it is especially easy when you are defeated. He does not know how long he could go on living like this, perhaps he will find a solution tomorrow. If not, there is always the next day, then the next day. All he cared about is that he gets his rest right now. He needs much rest for the long, grey and hopeless road of life ahead of him. What happens if he fails to prevail? He does not know, nor cared. All he cared about is that he gets his rest right now.
He is Satoshi.
He is truly an aimless wonderer.