Title: fix me.
Fandom and character: Saint Seiya, Ikki
Author and word count: Ghai
Disclaimer: Kurumada, Toei and other people own all the rights to everything.
x-posted in saint_seiya
“How old were you?”
He hated the questions. That’s how they pretended to care. He didn’t want their concern any more that he needed their help. A few years ago, maybe, but surely not now. Now it was too late, by a long long shot.
The man in the white coat repeated the question. Different phrasing. Something stupid, referring to the number of days he had been living in Death Queen Island when it happened.
“You see, I’ve lived every day of my life. There wasn’t, there isn’t, much point in counting.”
To hell with them, but even as he scorned the question and the questioner with his evasive answer, he knew there was less truth and more resentment in his words than the psychologist would ever realize. He hadn’t lived every day of his life.
Just how many had he spent unconscious? Were he to put the hours together, how many days of trying hard to keep his sanity in the dark, with no sound but the dripping of water? Those days had passed, but he hadn’t lived them. If anything, he had died every single minute of that time.
He had come to accept it, of course. Past was past, and there was nothing more to it. Pain, fear, the emptiness that fought to overpower everything else. All those were part of him, and if he hadn’t exactly welcomed them in, they didn’t bother him either.
But questions about age and time dug in an all together different wound. In all that was irretrievably lost. Life as it should have been. As it may have been. Days, years. Of life, no-life.
He stood up and walked out of the room, uncaring of the calls at his back. They were supposed to help him, these doctors. To fix the mistakes. To fix him.
The smile on Ikki’s face held no mirth. There was nothing to fix in him. Nothing that could be fixed, in any case.