Criss-Cross

 

They think that I believe in it, in this little golden cross that hangs so innocently around my neck.

 

This cross is far from innocent though, so far from the purity it is said to represent. It is a weight around my neck, an impossible weight that sometimes feels like it will break me in half.

 

It brings me no comfort with its golden shine, for I alone know of the dark red that stains it, the bloodshed it has seen.

 

It is my reminder of my mistakes, my atrocities, of the guilt that eats me alive both day and night.

 

Guilt, for the man that gave me this cross, the man of whom my last memory is of him lying on the floor, eyes pleading with me not to go, to take the risk that I took anyways, who died preaching what this cross symbolizes.

 

Guilt, for the woman who taught me to believe in this cross, if only a little bit, of whom my last memory is of her dying in my arms, believing in this little golden cross to the very last—never knowing that her death is what broke what little faith I held in it beyond repair.

 

All this cross holds is pain, death, guilt—but still I wear it, for I am so very afraid to forget the memories it holds.

 

So they see this cross, and they think that I believe in it and the God it represents. Are they deaf? Can they not hear me, when I call myself Death?

 

Perhaps they do...but perhaps they do not realize the weight that name holds for me. Death is all that I believe in, for I cannot believe in a God that so willingly allows the innocent to die.  At least Death is clear is his intentions, no matter how dark those intentions may be.

 

Sometimes, after certain battles where things went just a bit too far, became a bit too much, I imagine that the cross is burning against my chest, growing heavier with each moment, trying to drown me with its dark, overshadowing guilt. I sit upon my bed in the darkness, curled into a small ball trying not to break, with that golden cross in all its innocent façade, doing its best to break me.

 

Sometimes I wish nothing more than to tear it from my neck and throw it against the wall, out of a window, into a lake or a pond—to destroy it. To destroy its overwhelming presence in my life, once and for all. But I know that the moment I did, the guilt it in itself caused me would be completely overshadowed, multiplied a hundred fold in an instant, and I would never forgive myself.

 

What would they say, if they knew the power this small piece of gold held over me, the power that Death holds over me? If they knew the depth of my belief in the name I take? Would they laugh? Would they scoff? Think me insane? I don’t know, and I will never tell them to find out.

 

I know they think me carefree and guileless, happy and innocent. I am none of these things—for if I was, Death would not be my name, and this small, innocent golden cross would not control me so, like a puppet dancing on unbreakable strings.

 

----

 

That has been the most difficult installment of this series to write so far, not because of the topic, though I suppose it is a bit. After Through Your Eyes I was suddenly stuck with a list of stories for this series and no idea how to write a single one of them. Therefore, much thanks again to Anonymous Void for the inspiration needed to write this and wind dancer1981 for the constant reviews and amazing ideas.

 

DISCLAIMER: I hold no claim to Gundam Wing or any related franchises. You know what belongs to me.

 




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