Digimon Fan Fiction ❯ Nothing But Noise ❯ Grey Skies ( Chapter 1 )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: Event Horizon 
Iori reaches the bottom and doesn't come back.
Anime/Manga: Digimon Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 11.20.2002 | Updated On: 01.03.2003 | Pages: 1 | Words: 720 | Visits: 272 | Status: Completed
Iori reaches the bottom and doesn't come back.
Anime/Manga: Digimon Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 11.20.2002 | Updated On: 01.03.2003 | Pages: 1 | Words: 720 | Visits: 272 | Status: Completed
The characters in Digimon® are not mine. The plot and story
lines are not mine. Nothing whatsoever that falls in the
category: Digimon - is mine. And I'll add a vague warning to
those with sensitive or innocent ideas about the world to stay
far away from this fic. There, that was pretty blunt.
Iori fiddled with the torn edge of a faded picture. Once, it had been a happy picture. A man kneeled on a beach, the waves gently lapping in the background. To his chest, he held a small baby. The baby was laughing, as babies do, at a blurred figure running from the camera to join the portrait. It was his mother. So poor a picture, he was curious why she didn't throw it out long ago. When she finally did, he salvaged it and stuffed it in his wallet. He set it on the hardwood floor, carefully squaring its edges with pages of paper. He reached up to the bed for a kleenex. The photo had to be cleaned: it was smeared with blood. Trembling, he first wiped clean his fingers, then the picture. He threw the red tissue in the trash. Perfect. Finally, everything was perfect. He'd cancelled his classes at the community college. His back account was emptied - donated to a rescue workers' fund. The apartment was clean, the bills paid, everything in order. A hand written note lay beside the picture, letters running together. Not his fault - the poor quality ballpoint had messed up. But the picture - yes, it was the picture - was the last piece of the puzzle. And he'd managed to screw that up by staining it.
"I'm so sorry, father... I've brought shame..." He couldn't get it out, eyes overflowing and drowning his words. His plea. Pleading with the dead for clemency, absolution. He'd always been a small child, but big on the inside. Now all grown up, he was big on the outside. However the child he'd driven away - trying to be stronger than he was - was making him weak. Causing the everyday inconveniences to evolve into towering demons of inevitability. Making him fight back - at himself. Stepping outside the apartment building was a struggle. People were everywhere, judging him. Laughing to themselves. He was never good enough for himself - why should anyone else feel different? Just walking down the street made him feel awkward. Even if no one else was around. Then it was the hallways in the building itself. His sanctuary had been reduced to the rooms he could lock from others. The curtains were drawn, pursed together with clothespins. Iori lowered his head to the cold floor. The white painted walls were beginning to swirl. He hadn't been outside for four days. Last he knew, it was partly cloudy. He assumed it still was. The stale air was pulled in gasps through his open mouth. The tired lids blinked slowly, shedding their last tears. His right hand, blood renewing its presence, reached to the open straight-edge razor. Up until last spring, it had belonged to his grandfather. Soon, it would belong to no one. Such a beautiful blade, he folded it back inside the ivory handle. Its task complete, the hand returned and curled under his chest. Blackness began spinning spider webs on the corners of his vision. And he began to sing.
"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine," Softly, very softly, he breathed life into the old lullaby. "...when you're not happy... my skies are grey..." His ribs quaked violently, immune system still fighting the retreating cold. "...you'll never know, dear, how much I... loved you..." He would've sobbed, had he still cared. "...please don't take my sunshine away..." Exhaling deeply, Iori fell asleep.
EH: Amazing what instant mashed potatoes and Paul Mac can
conjure up.
Izzy: Who's Paul Mac?
EH: OH! You don't know who he is?
Izzy: <sweatdropping /> Not really.
EH: He's only the greatest electronica artist EVER! (buy
his CD!)
Izzy: Yeah, that was real inconspicuous...
Iori: Hey! Down here! <jumps to get attention />
How old was I, anyway?
EH: Eh, maybe 19... 20?
Iori: Really? I'm gonna live THAT long? I thought I'd
die in a bungee jump gone awry at the tender age of 15.
Izzy & EH: BUNGEE JUMPING?
EH: You never fail to astound me, Hida.
lines are not mine. Nothing whatsoever that falls in the
category: Digimon - is mine. And I'll add a vague warning to
those with sensitive or innocent ideas about the world to stay
far away from this fic. There, that was pretty blunt.
Iori fiddled with the torn edge of a faded picture. Once, it had been a happy picture. A man kneeled on a beach, the waves gently lapping in the background. To his chest, he held a small baby. The baby was laughing, as babies do, at a blurred figure running from the camera to join the portrait. It was his mother. So poor a picture, he was curious why she didn't throw it out long ago. When she finally did, he salvaged it and stuffed it in his wallet. He set it on the hardwood floor, carefully squaring its edges with pages of paper. He reached up to the bed for a kleenex. The photo had to be cleaned: it was smeared with blood. Trembling, he first wiped clean his fingers, then the picture. He threw the red tissue in the trash. Perfect. Finally, everything was perfect. He'd cancelled his classes at the community college. His back account was emptied - donated to a rescue workers' fund. The apartment was clean, the bills paid, everything in order. A hand written note lay beside the picture, letters running together. Not his fault - the poor quality ballpoint had messed up. But the picture - yes, it was the picture - was the last piece of the puzzle. And he'd managed to screw that up by staining it.
"I'm so sorry, father... I've brought shame..." He couldn't get it out, eyes overflowing and drowning his words. His plea. Pleading with the dead for clemency, absolution. He'd always been a small child, but big on the inside. Now all grown up, he was big on the outside. However the child he'd driven away - trying to be stronger than he was - was making him weak. Causing the everyday inconveniences to evolve into towering demons of inevitability. Making him fight back - at himself. Stepping outside the apartment building was a struggle. People were everywhere, judging him. Laughing to themselves. He was never good enough for himself - why should anyone else feel different? Just walking down the street made him feel awkward. Even if no one else was around. Then it was the hallways in the building itself. His sanctuary had been reduced to the rooms he could lock from others. The curtains were drawn, pursed together with clothespins. Iori lowered his head to the cold floor. The white painted walls were beginning to swirl. He hadn't been outside for four days. Last he knew, it was partly cloudy. He assumed it still was. The stale air was pulled in gasps through his open mouth. The tired lids blinked slowly, shedding their last tears. His right hand, blood renewing its presence, reached to the open straight-edge razor. Up until last spring, it had belonged to his grandfather. Soon, it would belong to no one. Such a beautiful blade, he folded it back inside the ivory handle. Its task complete, the hand returned and curled under his chest. Blackness began spinning spider webs on the corners of his vision. And he began to sing.
"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine," Softly, very softly, he breathed life into the old lullaby. "...when you're not happy... my skies are grey..." His ribs quaked violently, immune system still fighting the retreating cold. "...you'll never know, dear, how much I... loved you..." He would've sobbed, had he still cared. "...please don't take my sunshine away..." Exhaling deeply, Iori fell asleep.
EH: Amazing what instant mashed potatoes and Paul Mac can
conjure up.
Izzy: Who's Paul Mac?
EH: OH! You don't know who he is?
Izzy: <sweatdropping /> Not really.
EH: He's only the greatest electronica artist EVER! (buy
his CD!)
Izzy: Yeah, that was real inconspicuous...
Iori: Hey! Down here! <jumps to get attention />
How old was I, anyway?
EH: Eh, maybe 19... 20?
Iori: Really? I'm gonna live THAT long? I thought I'd
die in a bungee jump gone awry at the tender age of 15.
Izzy & EH: BUNGEE JUMPING?
EH: You never fail to astound me, Hida.