Mouse Tourmaline
Lost Cause Defender
A/N: Not really a fic. (Feel free to move it if it's in the wrong bit of the forum) Just something I came up with. The speakers are young characters from two anime shows: one of them is Pokémon. Yes, I know that in the shows the characters have no idea that anyone is watching them. But what would they think if they did? Maybe something like this.
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I am not her. She is not me.
Her? I never met her. You say that she went away, for reasons of her own. She had other things to do, things to see, an adventure to follow. If that’s the case, and I don’t doubt it, how could I have ‘driven’ her away?
I didn’t? You’re right. So leave me be, ALL of you.
She was a pretty girl, you say, but one who knew her own mind, someone who was all things in one; tough and gentle, stylish and practical, the determined adventurer and the damsel in distress. Strange how you never formed a fan club, wrote your fiction, told everyone how much you loved her until she was gone.
Was she really so perfect? Did she really have nothing you could criticise, no selfishness or cowardice or even a hint of impatience towards the people that surrounded her? Or was she just a girl, just an average kid like me, who fought her way through all the criticisms of her own faults and into your heart?
For all you say, would she really, truly shine brighter than one of heaven's stars if she were here now in my presence, outshine me and win everyone's love again? Would you want her to?
I am not her. Please, don’t watch me with that mindset, scrutinising me from all angles to find some hint that I’m going to turn into her clone. Even if I did, you wouldn’t love me; you’d call me a cheap replacement, an unimaginative copy. I am my own person. I have goals of my own, dreams of my own, likes and dislikes of my own. Don’t expect me to do whatever she did. Though our mannerisms sometimes cross, we will never be exactly alike. Yes, I know, she was your favourite, the one you’ll always love more than me.
I don’t care if you hate me. People do, sometimes. But if you’re going to hate me, I want it to be for the faults and flaws that are mine. Perhaps I’m annoying or over-cute or don’t have the stamina for what I’m doing. Perhaps I don’t work well with others, or I have too big a head or over-hopeful ambitions. That’s fair, even if it hurts. You can say it! I don’t care, in the end! As long as… as long as you don’t hate me for all the ways in which I fall short of being her.
For I am not her. Please remember that. And wherever she may be now, she is not me.
*
I am not him. He is not me.
She cried when he was taken away from her, when the glowing window in her front room failed to show her his picture. It’s understandable, even if the force that parted the two of them was neither death nor distance, but simple, irresistible time. All things must pass, or didn’t you ever hear that saying? A summer can’t last forever, however perfect it is.
It’s not even as if she’ll never see him again. He’s older, taller, maybe not the impulsive, tousle-haired sweetheart she once knew. He’s grown up. But she sees him, every now and again, taking care of his brother and of me. So why does she feel cheated?
Even as I ask that question I know the answer.
Because of me.
He is not me. But I’m here, doing his job. Destiny has forced me to take on what was once his role, and in her mind there could be no-one less suitable. My faults—I admit I have them, maybe I’m tactless, impatient, maybe I’m not perceptive and sensitive enough—seem like symptoms of evil to her. Even that isn’t fair; she’d have put up with far worse from him, she would have and she did, simply because he was hers. As my fate forces me into each new situation, she feels my silly, kiddish personality putting its unwelcome mark on all the things she once associated completely with him. How dare I?
His brother’s older now. She tried, for a while, to see in him the things she needed so much. But no-one is alike. He was an original, irreplaceable. But so am I!
Wake up, watcher-girl. Wake up and see the truth. I did not ‘steal’ him from you, any more than the people who moved into the house next door to you stole your old neighbours. When destiny calls to someone, when help is needed, does she expect me to sit and do nothing just because he would do it better, quicker, with more—for crying out loud—style? Should I wait for him to turn up and save the day while the world crashes down around my ears?
Surely it’s better to accept that I’m trying than to curse me for failing?
Enough. It’s useless. I know she’ll never appreciate me; never recognise my courage because I don’t have his impulsive recklessness; never see my sadness-- because she only recognises misery in the crystal tears that shone in his eyes; never even consider writing fan fiction about me as she smiles over her latest melodramatic piece; never know who I am. Because this is all she knows:
I am not him. He is not me.
And for that she'll never forgive me.
----------------------
I am not her. She is not me.
Her? I never met her. You say that she went away, for reasons of her own. She had other things to do, things to see, an adventure to follow. If that’s the case, and I don’t doubt it, how could I have ‘driven’ her away?
I didn’t? You’re right. So leave me be, ALL of you.
She was a pretty girl, you say, but one who knew her own mind, someone who was all things in one; tough and gentle, stylish and practical, the determined adventurer and the damsel in distress. Strange how you never formed a fan club, wrote your fiction, told everyone how much you loved her until she was gone.
Was she really so perfect? Did she really have nothing you could criticise, no selfishness or cowardice or even a hint of impatience towards the people that surrounded her? Or was she just a girl, just an average kid like me, who fought her way through all the criticisms of her own faults and into your heart?
For all you say, would she really, truly shine brighter than one of heaven's stars if she were here now in my presence, outshine me and win everyone's love again? Would you want her to?
I am not her. Please, don’t watch me with that mindset, scrutinising me from all angles to find some hint that I’m going to turn into her clone. Even if I did, you wouldn’t love me; you’d call me a cheap replacement, an unimaginative copy. I am my own person. I have goals of my own, dreams of my own, likes and dislikes of my own. Don’t expect me to do whatever she did. Though our mannerisms sometimes cross, we will never be exactly alike. Yes, I know, she was your favourite, the one you’ll always love more than me.
I don’t care if you hate me. People do, sometimes. But if you’re going to hate me, I want it to be for the faults and flaws that are mine. Perhaps I’m annoying or over-cute or don’t have the stamina for what I’m doing. Perhaps I don’t work well with others, or I have too big a head or over-hopeful ambitions. That’s fair, even if it hurts. You can say it! I don’t care, in the end! As long as… as long as you don’t hate me for all the ways in which I fall short of being her.
For I am not her. Please remember that. And wherever she may be now, she is not me.
*
I am not him. He is not me.
She cried when he was taken away from her, when the glowing window in her front room failed to show her his picture. It’s understandable, even if the force that parted the two of them was neither death nor distance, but simple, irresistible time. All things must pass, or didn’t you ever hear that saying? A summer can’t last forever, however perfect it is.
It’s not even as if she’ll never see him again. He’s older, taller, maybe not the impulsive, tousle-haired sweetheart she once knew. He’s grown up. But she sees him, every now and again, taking care of his brother and of me. So why does she feel cheated?
Even as I ask that question I know the answer.
Because of me.
He is not me. But I’m here, doing his job. Destiny has forced me to take on what was once his role, and in her mind there could be no-one less suitable. My faults—I admit I have them, maybe I’m tactless, impatient, maybe I’m not perceptive and sensitive enough—seem like symptoms of evil to her. Even that isn’t fair; she’d have put up with far worse from him, she would have and she did, simply because he was hers. As my fate forces me into each new situation, she feels my silly, kiddish personality putting its unwelcome mark on all the things she once associated completely with him. How dare I?
His brother’s older now. She tried, for a while, to see in him the things she needed so much. But no-one is alike. He was an original, irreplaceable. But so am I!
Wake up, watcher-girl. Wake up and see the truth. I did not ‘steal’ him from you, any more than the people who moved into the house next door to you stole your old neighbours. When destiny calls to someone, when help is needed, does she expect me to sit and do nothing just because he would do it better, quicker, with more—for crying out loud—style? Should I wait for him to turn up and save the day while the world crashes down around my ears?
Surely it’s better to accept that I’m trying than to curse me for failing?
Enough. It’s useless. I know she’ll never appreciate me; never recognise my courage because I don’t have his impulsive recklessness; never see my sadness-- because she only recognises misery in the crystal tears that shone in his eyes; never even consider writing fan fiction about me as she smiles over her latest melodramatic piece; never know who I am. Because this is all she knows:
I am not him. He is not me.
And for that she'll never forgive me.
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