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Post by blink, on Aug 15, 2009 19:57:34 GMT -5
 AND WHEN IT RAINS,
on this side of town it touches everything Let's just get this straight – I hate surveys like this. I mean, seriously, why do I have to tell you all this stuff about myself? Wait, it's required? .... FULL NAME,The birth certificate says Alena Elizabeth King. That's pronounced "uh-lay-nuh." Get it right. "Alena" is German or something, and "King" is probably English. NICKNAME,Look, I don't really care what you call me. If it's something insulting... I'll probably ignore it, to a certain point, since I don't really care what you think of me. But, if you cross the line, I'll snap, and, if you go way too far, you'll wish you were never born. There's a certain level of humiliation that even I can't tolerate. Got it? SEX,Isn't it obvious? Well... with all of those androgynous fags running around nowadays, I guess you could get confused. Let me spell it out for you: I'm a female. Yeah, yeah, two x-chromosomes and all that, you know what I mean. AGE,I'm nineteen, yeah? Legal for tobacco, not for alcohol, blah, blah, blah... I've drunk more than my fair share of alcohol before, but I'll tell you the truth – I don't like it. I hate getting drunk. I'd rather keep my sanity, thank you very much. Another reason I don't drink much is the vomiting. I can't stand the vomiting. SEXUAL ORIENTATION,I don't care whether you're a boy or girl. Gender doesn't matter to me, not because I'm bisexual, but because I'm not likely to fuck you either way. Frankly, I don't give a damn about that kind of thing. Love, lust, who needs them? Well, to tell the truth, I just don't think about it, is all. But, if I had to choose, I'd say heterosexual... but maybe I'm a bit flexible. I don't know. ETHNICITY,Um, my father is some kind of Caucasian and my mother is Chinese, so I guess that makes me half Chinese and half white, or what some call a "whasian." And, if you call it ethnicity, I'm a Sharpedo Pokémorph... I wasn't born that way, though. BIRTHDAY,I really hate birthday parties and the like, just saying. But, if you have to know, I was born on the seventeenth of January. Don't bother to get me a present. Oh, and, if you sing me "Happy Birthday," I just might punch you. BIRTHPLACE,I was born and raised in Slateport City of the Hoenn Region, but I went to school in Rustboro City and spent a lot of time in Dewford Town.
YOU MADE YOURSELF A BED
at the bottom of the blackest hole EYES,Hm... So, I'd say my eyes are pretty interesting looking. My irises are a bright red, and, you know where your eyes are white? Mine are black. My eye-whites are black. Yeah, yeah, the irony. If I ever get stared at, it's probably because of these eyes. I don't mind them, really. I mean, sure it was hard to get used to them. Living your entire life with plain brown eyes and then suddenly making a bizarre change is kinda shocking at first. But I'd say they're interesting. They give me a sort of... distinctive look, if ya know what I mean. I like them, really. HAIR,Other than the color, which is somewhere between teal and blue, the color of a Sharpedo's body, my hair is nothing special. It's sort of layered, medium length... I don't do much with it (I mean, why waste the time?), but it ends up looking pretty good anyway. HEIGHT,I'm of about average height. Last I checked, I was five feet and seven inches... more or less. WEIGHT,I guess I'm pretty happy with my weight. I guess the reason I'm pretty happy with it is that I don't really care. It's somewhere around one hundred and twenty pounds. I don't get why so many girls freak about how much they weigh. Okay, that's a lie. I suppose I sort of get why, having been there myself. Well, actually, I don't really get why I did a lot of things back then... but whatever. OVERALL BUILD,I guess I have a pretty good figure, or so I'm told. I'm pretty skinny, long legs, proportional breasts... I just wouldn't be able to stand super huge breasts. I mean, huge boobs sort of look weird in the first place, and wouldn't they be really inconvenient? I really don't understand people who want to get surgery and stuff. So yeah, I'm fairly toned, slender, leggy... What are you expecting me to say? There's a picture in the section below; use your eyes, for Arceus' sake. CLOTHES,This is my basic wardrobe for my journey in Kairuu. I mix and match, but the dark blue jacket with the Sharpedo marking on the back is what I wear most often. HEALTH CONCERNS,What does this have to do with appearance? Um, does low blood pressure count? If I get up after sitting down for a long time, my vision starts to go... It's more like whiting out than blacking out – sort of like a television channel with bad reception. OTHER,My complexion is really pale – not to the point of looking sickly, though some say my skin has a grayish tint. Oh, and my teeth are sharp. You know, jagged like those of a Sharpedo. I still have molars though, thank Arceus. Under my eyes there are these somewhat smoky black markings that are sort of similar to the ones a Sharpedo has... though I think the black markings near the eyes of a Sharpedo might actually be holes or gills or something. I couldn't say. Speaking of gills, I sort of have those, too. They're behind my ears, and you can't see them most of the time. They sort of just look like lines from a distance. But when I go into saltwater, they elongate and migrate to a more visible place on each side of my neck to allow me to breathe underwater. They don't work in freshwater, though. And I can't stay in freshwater for over an hour I'll start feeling really sick.
AND CONVINCED YOURSELF
it's not the reason you don't see the sun anymore CAREER PATH,I set out to be a trainer, since I'm not into Pokémon beauty pageants or whatever. FAMILY,Okay, so my mom's in her mid-fifties. Her name is Samantha Wang. She's tall for a Chinese woman and businesslike, always businesslike. She is the CEO of a big jewelery company, "E. Shine," and lives with my brother in Slateport. As for our relationship, we've always been a bit distant. That might change or it might not; we haven't spent enough time together to find out. She hasn't really gotten over the fact that I have changed so much so quickly in the past couple of years, but she was happy when I returned. So, yes, there's a certain degree of mother-daughter relationship between us.
My father is... I don't know how old he is, actually. His name is Joseph King, and he was is extremely wealthy. (Sorry. I tend to talk about him in the past tense because I haven't seen him since I was twelve.) He inherited a shitload of dough by the time he was eighteen and has always lived in luxury. He has never held a job, never worked a day in his life. I guess he married my mother because he thought she could give him some semblance of a normality. I don't know. All I know is that he cheated on her constantly throughout the thirteen years they were married. He was a God damn sex addict, that's what he was. Seriously, he was diagnosed as one. Anyway, now he lives in Mauville City in one of those studio apartments pretending to be a destitute artist. What kind of destitute artist is worth that kind of money? Tch. What a messed up guy.
And, last but not least, we come to my brother. Alexander “Alex” King is only sixteen years old and already has the makings of a pimp. Yeah, you read that right. I swear, that brunette bastard has too many lady friends to count. Even random women on the street stop to swoon. Don't get me wrong. I've grown quite fond of the kid over the past year. It's just funny. I bet he'll be the one to take over the company. He's rather persuasive, you know – cajoling and all. All the ladies want him and all the guys want to be him. And he's only sixteen. He cracks me up. PERSONALITY,Arceus, how am I supposed to describe my own personality? I don't like describing myself in general, let alone answering questions like, “Who is Alena King?” and, “What makes you the best person for this position?” I hate that last question especially. You're not supposed to say anything bad about yourself, but you're not supposed to sound conceited. Basically, you're being asked to brag about yourself while making it seem like that isn't what you're doing. I always leave that question blank. I guess that's why no one has ever hired me. If there's one thing I hate doing, it's bragging. If there's another thing I hate doing, it's pretending. I just can't stand people who act fake. I see it all the time in the world of the “upper-class,” and it bothers me to no end. Especially suck-ups. Suck-ups are the worst. All of that flattery and affected behavior just makes me sick.
Another thing I try not to do is complain (unless it's about waiting, especially waiting in lines – that's another story). I know the previous paragraph just seems like a bunch of complaints, but I don't mind as much because I don't even know you, and, chances are, we'll never meet each other. You're just some person sitting at a desk and staring at my application on a computer screen who has to read and accept this thing before I can get into this Kairuu Region of yours. I bet you get bored, reading applications all day long, so I'll complain to my heart's content. Maybe I'll brighten up your day with my candor.
What I don't like is when people just complain all the time – in public, in restrooms, everywhere. They're just unloading their petty little problems on the world without a care for how freaking annoyed they're making other people. Half the time they're looking for sympathy or handouts, too. Handouts!
That's another thing I don't like: beggars. I don't mean the guy with mental problems sitting on the sidewalk and beseeching you to help fuel his cocaine addiction (not that I'm too fond of that type of beggar either). No, I'm talking about people who just constantly ask for help and don't try to help themselves. I'm talking about people who grovel in the dirt, who don't work hard, who sit back and pity their poor fucking selves. It's not like they have mental problems or something. On second thought, maybe it is a form of mental illness – compulsive begging. That' sounds about right.
Pity- and attention-mongering are probably mental diseases, too. I don't give a Rattata's ass where the hell you've come from or how bad your life has been. For Arceus's sake, when the hell will they quit it with the fucking sob stories? I mean, unless I know you and care about you or asked to hear about your past, keep your problems to yourself, will you? Anybody with half a fucking brain would have the sense not to bother strangers with his or her life story. Unless, that is, you're doing this tear-jerker shit on purpose in order to get something out of it (other than the obvious sympathy factor)... like money or some other material gain. Then I really have not a shred of respect for you.
My respect is reserved for the kind of person who deals with hardships, who may have had a hard life, but doesn't complain. Perseverance usually goes hand in hand with that kind of person. People who are resilient and persistent like that have my total respect, even if some of them are jerks. Not like I'd say it to their faces or anything, but I admire those people. It may sound weird, but I want to become like them. I want to become that way – persistent, independent, determined. And I know everyone has a certain amount of cowardice, but those people seem to have the least. I like people who are not all bark and no bite; I like people who are willing to voice their opinions, who don't always say what other people want to hear, who are willing to take or give a punch to stand up for what they believe in. That's the kind of person I want to be...
Aww, fuck. Now I'm getting all emotional and idealistic and shit. (I hate people who are overly emotional, too.) Anyway, I didn't write much about myself in the end. Sorry about the cursing. I sort of get riled up when talking about this kind of stuff... And don't tell me using curse words is bad for my vocabulary or I'll fucking defenestrate you. I'm done.
(It may just seem like one long rant about what she likes and what she hates [Perhaps she did get a bit too carried away.], but this spiel actually reveals quite a bit about Alena's character. First off, she would probably never say any of this out loud. Probably. In fact, unless she actually has some tie to you or really likes you or something along those lines, it is unlikely that she will try to change you. She would think it would be none of her business and that it would be hypocritical of her to force her will upon you. [Speaking of which, she didn't get to the part about hating hypocrites.]
Well, "hate" is a strong word. When Alena says she "hates" all of these things, what she really means is that she hates seeing them in herself. And, though others may find it hard to believe, considering the way she acts, she really does believes that she possesses many of these traits. She believes that she is weak, helpless, and dependent, and she subconsciously despises herself because of it. Despite this lingering self-loathing, a remainder of her transformation in Dewford Town, Alena appears quite self-confident in her posture and gaze.
In others, these traits simply annoy her, and she is willing to ignore them, usually. When looking at her rant from this perspective, things are a little clearer. In a few words, Alena is independent, persistent, irritable, impatient, frank [sometimes too much so], cold, slightly sarcastic, and, perhaps surprisingly, rather humble. She strives not to be what she is annoyed by – a complainer, a beggar, a liar, a whiner, an overly conceited person, a hypocrite, and plenty of other things not mentioned here.
Another thing she would never admit is that she is actually rather compassionate, though not in the conventional, sympathetic way. Alena's way of expressing it is more brutal... somewhat like what some people call "tough love," except maybe even more severe. In addition, she often gives good advice, though it may be given in a rough manner. Granted, it's hard for most to recognize this side of the 'morph.
As far as most can tell, all Alena cares about is the fact that you are here now, and how she is affected by your presence. In fact, she would like you to believe that she is completely indifferent to your existence. At first glance, Alena really does seem completely uninterested in the things going on around her. To the contrary, she isn't indifferent, but simply prefers to detach herself to a certain degree; it helps her to keep a cool head – most of the time. Her gaze, cold and unsympathetic, belies the whirlwind of emotions, feelings, and thoughts that lies deep beneath her icy exterior. It is difficult to truly anger her, though many things can push her buttons, so to speak, and at these times she can get very annoyed. Annoyance is one of the few emotions she is completely inept at hiding.
She seems to be quite irreverent and rude towards others, not bothering with polite speech, and respect for superiors appears to go straight over her head. She's an introvert at heart, and doesn't really like dealing with people, but this doesn't stop her from raising her voice. Alena's brash manner of speech leaves little room to argue, and often offends others. Her attitude is unpleasant and difficult to get used to, which only intensifies with strangers, causing many to dislike her on sight.) BACKGROUND,Helplessness. Have you ever experienced it – the horror at discovering there is nothing you can do, the self pity that wells up inside, the gasping for air that will not come? Well, perhaps it's different for everyone... Perhaps most people – strong people – don't feel such things. Perhaps my situation was... unique. Well, if it was, that is still no excuse for feeling helpless, for anything.
I had slipped beneath the turbulent surface of the sea, weakened by futile attempts to stay afloat. I was dying for air that wouldn't come, for all around was water – tons and tons of water pressing in on my body. I could see a hand reaching out above me, reaching out for a distant sun, whose light, refracted by the water, turned my surroundings into an endless blur. But one thing was clear – I had always doubted that one's entire life could flash before one's eyes in the seconds before death, but the hackneyed theme had some truth in it. I was reliving my seventeen years on this earth.
In my first memory, I, a very young child, stood at the base of a grand, red-carpeted staircase – the one meant to overwhelm whenever anyone entered the mansion – wearing that forest-green dress my father loved, my light brown hair fastened into pigtails. My left hand clutched a stuffed Teddiursa to my three-year-old chest and my right was outstretched. I was crying. I was crying because Mommy was leaving me. No, she wasn't dying. She didn't have some terminal illness. She wasn't going to be gone forever. She was going to work, just going to work. But the I acted like the she was abandoning me, betraying me. I remember running after the her silhouette as she walked away, away through those great mahogany doors. I stumbled and fell, hand still outstretched, as those doors closed, leaving me alone in the darkness. Alone.
A maid or a nanny – I can't remember which – rushed to the my side, trying to help her up. I slapped her in the face. I felt so sorry for myself. Mommy had gone to work. Daddy was out at some party. But I was all alone. I began to cry, which, by now, was a daily occurrence. Arceus, was I a fucking brat.
Some might say that I didn't have the right to be so miserable. I was pretty fortunate, as all things go. My father was one of those man-child types who had been born into money and had never quite gotten a hold on reality. My mother, on the other hand, was straightforward and serious – a business woman who'd worked her way up in the world, becoming CEO of a thriving business company by age twenty-nine. So, money was never a problem. I had toys and trinkets galore. And, I almost forgot, a baby brother was on the way. With that in mind, I'm sure my tears seem inexplicable to you. I admit, I feel the same way now. But back then my hardships seemed so real. Mommy was always at work. Daddy was always gone, too, despite not having a job. Poor little Alena: all alone with no one to hold. Boo hoo.
Things only got worse in my miserable little life. When I was around five years of age, my mother thrust me into music – the piano. I saw this as a new venue through which to gain the attention of my largely absentee parents. My mother cared little for my musical accomplishments, and she wrote off my instructor's praise for my uncanny ear for music as an attempt to suck up to her. She had little to no interest in music. She'd only gotten me started with it because that was the fashionable thing to do with upper-class kids my age. As for my father, he insisted I practice somewhere out of earshot, as my "banging on that God damn piano" didn't help his hangovers. I grew more and more apathetic when it came to music. I'd throw tantrums whenever I was struggling with a piece. I ceased to practice, to the dismay of my teacher.
My academics progressed similarly. From ages six to twelve, I attended some expensive, private elementary school with a bunch of other rich snobs. Though I excelled at my studies in general, especially in English and science, I complained constantly about the workload; I cried whenever something frustrated me and even when I understood everything. It was just a way to get attention.
At the end of sixth grade, two things shook my horrible little world. First, someone had told my mother that my intelligence was sharper than that of the average child, so she decided to ship me off to some boarding school in Rustboro City the next fall. Second, my parents were going to get a divorce. Oh, you should have heard me, how I wailed, how I exuded tears like a wet sponge! But my tears meant nothing. I was shipped away to Rustboro (literally, as in, I took a boat there) and my parents filed for a divorce.
I was a total bitch to everyone at that school, but that didn't make me stand out much. Every girl was a bitch to every other girl there. I remember, as our hormones started kicking in, we began fawning all over our male classmates, batting eyelashes, giggling, using loud noticeable voices, adopting what we thought were sexy poses... Yeah, it makes me laugh just thinking about it now. Despite being a school for the gifted rich, academics were at the back of our minds.
For the next three years, I spent the school years in Rustboro and came home to Slateport City – where my mother and brother lived – for the summers. My rebellious, hormonal stage was now going full throttle. I would sunbathe all day at the public beach. (We had our own private stretch of the shore, but there wasn't anyone there to admire me.) And in the evenings I'd go out in the skimpiest sundresses I could find, roaming the city streets until midnight. I thought I was really hot stuff. Well, I thought so half the time. The other half I thought I was becoming obese. I became bulimic. I never want to vomit again. And it was all for God damn attention. Jesus fucking Christ.
Anyway, it was like I was living in a dream... not that I thought it was a good dream or anything. Just... nothing seemed real. I cried almost every day. I cried to get pity. I cried to get picked up. Especially, I cried whenever anyone criticized me in the least. I was a fragile creature, I reminded everyone. I couldn't take such battering. Bullshit.
Well, I'd been taking the ship home for the summer – a big cruiser of some sort – after my junior year. One minute I was walking around on the deck, and the next minute I was flying overboard. Before I knew what was happening, I hit the water. I struggled to stay afloat, but to no avail. Nobody on board noticed as I disappeared beneath the waves.
And so there I was. The light filtering down from above was lost in the blackness that surrounded me. There I was, and my life had flashed before my eyes. And, oh what a life it had been. Something clicked in me then, something that I may have felt all along, something that I may have just hidden from myself – repulsion.
The vulnerability I felt was... overwhelming. I felt so open, so weak, so scared. I would have felt panic if I'd had the strength to do so. I was drowning not in water, but in a sea of helplessness. I was exposed to the world, my soul naked for all, including myself, to see. And it was an ugly soul – a weak, dependent, disgusting soul. No longer did I pity myself. No longer was I crying, pleading for help. I wanted to become stronger. I wanted... never to feel this again. But the darkness was closing in. I was going to die soon. Even I knew that then.
A dark mass swam slowly past.
Wait...
As if it had heard my thoughts, the thing, a Pokémon, probably, glided back to me. I heard a masculine voice inside my mind.
"Do you want to live? Are you afraid of dying?"
I ignored the questions. I could see myself suspended in the water. It was almost as if I was another person. Yes, that girl was a stranger to me. I would no longer have anything to do with that weak, pitiful girl. The water in her lungs, the lack of oxygen – they had ended her life, the life of that child. She had drowned, died crying. And now what remained, the rest of my soul, would start again for what little remained of my life.
Perhaps my oxygen-deprived brain was going crazy, because I remember talking to the blue-gray mass, hissing the first words of my new life.
"Make me stronger."
And, somehow, I really thought it could save me.
I heard a man's laugh... And then the thing collided with my body. Or, at least, I thought it had collided with my body, but I felt no contact. Were my senses already that dull? No... it seemed as if it had... passed through me. The water rushed by in the wake of the thing, and then, then there was the contact – an excruciating internal pain. Each individual nerve cried out in agony as the feeling spilled out from my core. I screamed, and everything went black.
The sunlight beaming in through an open window blinded me for a moment as I opened my eyes. I shut them quickly. The familiar smell of seawater flowed into my nostrils. The familiar sound of Wingull cries reached my ears. The warm sun beat gently against my eyelids.
I opened my eyes again. Above me – an unfamiliar white ceiling... beneath me – an unfamiliar bed... on me – unfamiliar clothes... beside me – an unfamiliar chair on which an unfamiliar boy slept soundly. One would naturally expect me to wonder where I was, how I'd gotten there. But, frankly, my dear, I didn't give a damn.
The boy in the chair looked like he needed some rest, but I woke him anyway, placing my hand on his knee. He woke slowly, eyes flickering open and shut for a few seconds before he yawned widely and finally looked me straight in the face. He flinched, startled.
"Your... your eyes!"
"What about my eyes?" There was genuine surprise in my voice (my eyes had never been anything special), but I think he mistook it for defensiveness, because he didn't say anything else. I decided I might as well ask the obvious question.
"Where am I?"
"Dewford Town – on an island in southeast Hoenn. Um, where do you come from?"
I ignored his question, running a hand over my cheek for a moment before asking, "Where's the bathroom? I want to wash my face..."
He pointed. I looked. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood. Almost immediately, my knees buckled. I was stumbling, falling. He was supporting me in an instant. I held on to his shoulder as he helped me to the bathroom. I was a bit more steady on my feet by then and entered on my own, leaning heavily on the sink counter as I closed the door behind me.
I practically shoved my face in the sink as I turned on the tap and splashed water in my face. The boy stood outside the door, back against the wall. Questions came to mind and I voiced them... albeit somewhat sharply.
"How did I get here?"
"You washed up on the beach. I found you and brought you here."
"This is your house?"
"Y-yeah."
"And how long ago was that?"
"Um... three and a half weeks, I think."
Three and a half weeks! No wonder my legs had been so weak at first.
"Whose... clothes am I wearing?"
"M-mine... I-I thought they'd be better than... um... you not... wearing any clothes."
Arceus, I could almost hear him blush. I turned off the tap. A pause... "I wasn't wearing any clothes?"
"Yeah..."
Another pause. I was drying my face with a washcloth now. "Okay."
I glanced at myself in the mirror as I headed out, did a double take. I almost fell again, this time not because of my legs, but due to shock. Who was that in the mirror? She had my face, my body, my hairstyle, but.... The hair color... the skin color... the teeth... the eyes... I fumbled with the door handle. And, when I finally managed to open it, I grabbed the hand of the boy as I sank to the ground, pulling him down with me.
"Tell me something," I said, still gripping his hand. I think he was scared or worried or both. "Tell me, what do I look like to you?"
"Um, you look like a..." He seemed nervous or something and quickly pulled his rough, calloused hand away from mine. "You look like a pretty girl around the age–"
"No!" I interrupted. "Be honest. What do I look like to you?!" I was somewhat frantic by this time, and, frankly, his attempts to be polite were only serving to further exasperate me.
He looked away from me. "To be honest, Miss, you look a little like a... Sharpedo..."
I relaxed, sighing. "Thank Arceus. That makes two of us. I thought I was going mad."
We sat for a long time in that dimply lit hallway. I didn't ask many more questions, but gathered that his name was Andrew, and he had lived in Dewford all his life. This small house was his own. He'd bought it after taking over the family business. He was twenty-two years old.
He asked me a few questions then. What is your name? Alena. How old are you? Seventeen. Where are you from?
No answer.
Like I hoped he would, Andrew assumed I had amnesia. In truth, I remembered everything. I remembered it with painful clarity. But I didn't want to go back... not yet, anyway. And I knew I'd have to leave if he knew I could contact my relatives. After that, he rarely mentioned my past. I think, secretly, he didn't want me to remember. Perhaps he was ashamed of that.
He was always very kind to me. I was lucky, really – lucky to have been found by him, of all people. He was gentle, patient, and he gave me my privacy. We were silent during most of our time together. It wasn't awkward or anything, but rather a mutual understanding of some sort.
Like I said, I didn't talk much back then (not that I do now), but I thought a lot. There were things that needed sorting out. Many of my days were spent on the cliffs that overlooked the town and on the seashore, where I let the waves lap gently at my ankles and watched the surf break on the rocks in the distance. All the while, I was thinking – thinking about who I was, who I had been, and who I wanted to be. The conscious decision to change had been made out there in the open sea, but it was on the shores of Dewford where the real transformation took place.
You may have thought of my reaction to my changed appearance as too complacent. Shouldn't I have screamed, cried, panicked? After all, my appearance had suddenly and drastically changed! Here's the thing: to me, my new appearance was more than just a change in hair color, eye color, and the like. It symbolized something else... It symbolized my second chance – my new life. So I just took it in stride.
So I stayed with Andrew for the next year or so, wandering like that, always wandering. And one morning, as I walked into the kitchen for breakfast, I knew my stay was coming to a close. Right away, I could tell that Andrew was upset. The newspaper... I took it from his hands. News came slowly to Dewford, being out in the middle of the sea and all. A picture caught my eye... a headline... an article.
“Search for E. Shine CEO's Missing Daughter Continues...” There was my old face staring back at me, smiling coyly. It was quite a different face, but it was mine, nonetheless... It was about time I headed home. I made plans to leave the next day.
When I awoke the morning of my departure, the house was empty. But finding Andrew was easy enough. He was looking out over the sea from the spot at which he'd found me. (He must not have been able to see far, considering the heavy fog that hung over the island that morning. He caught sight of me, looked away. I went to stand in front of him.
“Well, I guess... I guess this is good—” He couldn't finish. I had given him a quick peck on the lips – a thank you, per se... I had never been good at saying goodbye, and a kiss, that innocent kiss, was the least I could do to express my gratitude. He hugged me for a long time. Had he been almost anyone else, I would have pushed him away. He wasn't family, after all, but he also wasn't a stranger. He wasn't a lover. He was in a category all to his own – companion, friend, protector. He had allowed me to find myself. That hug, that kiss, were the least I could do.
A loud whistle echoed out across the water – a warning that my ship would soon leave. “I have to go. Thank you.” I extricated myself from his arms and left him standing there, alone on the beach, as I disappeared into the mist.
That's all folks. You can go back to your boring life now, reading phony applications day in and day out. I hope my life story kept you entertained for a bit.
“Alex!” I looked up upon hearing my name. The door to my study burst open, and in the frame stood a panting, disgruntled Claire, the maid we'd employed about half a year ago. “Alex! I—”
I smiled. “Next time, dear, could you knock?” She flushed bright red and pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. How cute.
“Ah, yes Al—I mean, young master. I a-apologize. Um... There's someone at the front door, and she says she knows you—” At this point, I began mentally listing all the possible girls she could be – the chick I'd dumped the previous Tuesday, or possibly one of my many fans from school... Oh how I love toying with the hearts of women, young and old. “—and she says she knows your mother—” Now, that was unusual. I sat up straighter, listening more intently. “—and she looks really scary, and she won't go away and she said she wanted to see you and your mother, and I told her the lady is away right now, and I'm afraid she's going to hurt Alexander-sama, and—”
I had gotten up from my chair and placed a hand on her cheek. In the most soothing voice I could muster (which, I must say, was really quite soothing), I reassured her. “Thank you, love. You're doing splendidly.” She nearly fainted. Oh, how I love doing that.
After having gracefully made my way down the grand staircase, I looked at the security videos and out the eye hole on the door. Her back was turned, so all I could see was blue hair and pale skin. I didn't know anyone of that description. I opened the door. She turned. My heart skipped a beat, shocked, as I saw her face. I leaned heavily onto the door frame for support.
“What, don't even recognize your own sister?” She knew I had recognized her. I hear the sarcasm behind her voice, could see it in her face. But that face... she was so.... different. She looked different, she stood differently, even the attitude behind her words was different. And I was taller than her now. But, all that aside, she was, without a doubt, my long lost sister.
We had never been on good terms. No, she had always despised me. She had been a selfish brat who pushed me away when I was crying. I was a pest, lower than a pest. To her, I didn't exist. When Father hit me, she would look away. And she was so annoying – constantly crying, throwing fits, attention-mongering. The brat. The slut. I hated her. I had been happy when she disappeared.
But something stopped me from slamming the door in her face there and then – something in her words, behind her eyes. And now I had invited her inside. Now she was sitting on the couch across from me as we waited for our mother to return home. She gazed idly around – at the new sofa, at the piano, at the untouched tea before her – but my gaze was fixed on her. I was waiting for the tears, the whining, the tales about her terrible year away. They never came.
When our mother walked into the room an uncomfortable hour later, she stopped dead in her tracks. I hadn't phoned ahead to let her know about my sister. I hadn't wanted to. I could see flickers of shock, recognition, relief, dismay, confusion, happiness, and fatigue flash over her face all in the course of a split second. “Alena.” She sank into a wing-backed armchair, letting out a long breath, not taking her eyes off her daughter. “Oh...” She put a hand to her temple. “It has been a long, long day.”
Alena didn't go back to school. She stayed home and applied herself to her studies with a determination I had never seen in her. And the piano... While she had played sloppily and carelessly before (despite being talented, she had paid little attention to technique), her playing now became much more skillful, professional, and beautiful. I began to play duets with her. My violin and her piano seemed as if they had been made for each other. We played at a few public events, though she mostly kept to the house.
In the few days after Alena's return, I had assigned Claire to be her personal servant – my spy. Yes, I spied on my own sister. And I learned a few rather interesting things about my new sister. For one, she would leave the mansion at night to "run" and return with cuts and bruises; she was fighting, or so it seemed. As Claire tended to my sister's wounds, she, in her own timid way, would ask what my sister was up to and why she was doing this to herself. My sister said something about experiencing the world and wanting to know how to defend herself or some such nonsense. One time, she told Claire to tell me a) something about being helpless, and b) that she didn't like spies. Poor Claire was shaken. I relieved the girl of her duties as a spy and did nothing more in the way of subterfuge. I liked my sister's new sense of determination, independence, and even her irritability and impatience. I began to feel that I actually had a sister. And then, as suddenly as she had returned, she was gone again.
Dear Dr. Wood,
Nearly half a year ago, my daughter returned to me. One would normally assume this to mean that she returned in both body and mind, but my daughter did neither. She returned with a new body and a new mind, but, somehow, I knew it was her. It sounds silly, doesn't it? Yes, it sounds absolutely absurd. Maybe it was some innate maternal instinct that led me to recognize her; I cannot say. But it was certainly a shock to see her so... changed. Whereas she was once of a timid, fragile nature, she now possesses an independence and determination that I have rarely seen in anyone.
I have had cameras installed in every room, monitoring her behavior. I don't understand! She even talks to Pokémon sometimes! How absurd! And she acts as if they speak in return. She carries on conversations with the creatures! Oh, is this a sign of insanity?
I have taken her to countless doctors, psychiatrists, trying to find a reason for this change, trying to find what is wrong with her. (This isn't to say that the change is entirely bad. I just must know why, how...) None had a viable explanation. All kept asking whether she'd dyed her hair, filed her teeth... (Oh, how I shudder at the mere notion.) And the girl herself is less than cooperative. She claims not to remember a thing. Some doctors attribute the change in personality to head trauma, but I am not so certain. And none have an explanation for the change in appearance. They write it off as an “unexplained phenomenon” and say that, as such, it is “unexplainable.” I will not take that for an answer! Everything has an explanation!
Alice, my dear friend, do you have an answer to my burning query? What has happened to the girl?
Sincerely,
Samantha Wang
Dear Sam,
I'm not sure how to put this delicately, but it sounds to me as if your daughter is simply... growing up.
Sincerely,
Dr. Alice Wood
Like I said, my sister is gone. It was rather sudden, to tell the truth. She left a note for me on her bedside table saying something about how she didn't want to live under constant supervision and that she was leaving... going to Kairuu, of all places, and finding a place for herself in the world. Kairuu? That backward region? Pokémon trainer? Our mother had never been fond of the little monsters. My sister said that she did not know when she would return, left a cell phone number, and ended with a "love, Alena." (Which, in retrospect, is somewhat out of character...) Just when I was getting to know her, too...
Alena arrived safely in Kairuu, chosen a random starter Pokémon at the Lab – a Gible – and begun her journey as a Pokémon trainer. Though she has not contacted him yet, she will stay in touch with her brother throughout her journey.
CREDITS/NOTES,The last section of the history happened on the second version of Kairuu.
Lyrics by Paramore (“When it Rains”)
All images of Alena were drawn by my awesome friend, Alena (who, unfortunately, doesn't have a deviantart account), explicitly for my use. Not that it's really worth stealing, but, just in case, please don't steal. (:
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