The Unbearable Lightness of being
Heero punched me.
We had infiltrated Dekim Barton’s base, meeting up with Trowa,
undercover as usual. The next thing I know some alarm was going off,
and then Heero was asking me to punch him.
I was all too happy to comply.
I hated Heero Yuy. You’d think, through the several times we had met,
we would be confidants by now. Partners, maybe, or at least
acquaintances. I don’t know.
My punch didn’t even faze him. I hit him square in the jaw, and even
before my arm fell back to my side I felt his fist connect with my
stomach. My world went black.
I woke up in a cell. I had to laugh at that; I had been in this
position before. But my humor was short-lived, and I pulled my knees up
to my chest, wrapping my manacled arms around them.
I didn’t hate Heero Yuy.
I could never hate Heero Yuy.
Everything’s so gray here. The walls, the floor, but like I said
before- I’m used to it. I remember the first time I had been caught by
the enemy. I had snuck onto Professor G’s ship and some maintenance
lackey had found me. They tossed me in a closet when they went off to
tell G. The room was on the outskirts of the ship, and I knew there was
only that sheet of metal between me and the coldness of space. They had
me in there for a few hours. I ticked off the seconds in my head, even
as I dreamt of what lay on the other side of what lay on the other side
of that wall. I remember I pressed my palm and cheek against the smooth
metal, imagining how I would die if they tossed me out. No doubt, I’d
just suffocate. Or maybe they’d be subtle, tossing me out in an air
suit. Then maybe I would freeze to death, or slowly run out of air. Or
maybe the gravitational field of some comet would pull me in before any
of that could happen. I imagined the collision.
Later on I drifted through space in Deathscythe, contemplating how far
we’d come from the tin cans of twentieth century Before Colonies,
lyrics from Major Tom Coming Home drifting through my head. I sang
along to the voice in my head, staring out into space, and my breath
formed little clouds in the stale air of the gundam. It’s cold in here,
too.
“…Back at ground control, there is a problem. Go to rockets full. Not
responding. Hello, Major Tom,are you receiving? Turn the thrusters on,
we’re standing by. There’s no reply…”
It was the same, space and that closet. They were both so empty. My
voice ricocheted of the air particles and metal fixtures, tiny and
hollow in my ears. And I wondered, what people thought of space back
then. I wondered if they thought it was fantastic, or if they were
afraid. I wondered what they imagined, looking up into space. If they
thought something might have been waiting there for them.
“…Across the stratosphere, a final message: give my wife my love. Then
nothing more…”
I realize what had happened. I’m not stupid, after all. We were
discovered by Dekim’s troops, and Heero sacrificed me so he could get
away. And that’s why I’m in this cell, and the song’s playing in my
head again. Somewhere along the way from there to here some one had
snagged my lock picks, and there was no way I could get out. I didn’t
mind though, being the sacrifice, since I had no doubt Heero would win
this war. Still, I’d be lying if I said a part of me wasn’t hoping
Heero or Trowa would come by to help me out.
My life…sometimes, I wonder about it. Father Maxwell, I think he had
been in love once. He told me, when you’re young and first in love, you
hope that you die before your partner, so she could live a longer life.
Then as you grow older, wiser, and that love deepens, you hope your
partner dies first, so she won’t have to deal with the loss. And of
course, you hope you’re not long to follow. Every one in my life has
died, and I wonder if I’m doing myself a favor by surviving them.
I used to steal books when I lived in the orphanage. Visiting clergy
would come, sometimes with a book other than the Bible to peruse before
bed. They were always paperback things, probably picked up while
waiting at the spaceport. They didn’t cost much, and were never missed.
I couldn’t even read back then, not really. I just liked to hold them
in my hands, smell the crisp pages. I lined them up on a makeshift
bookshelf I had constructed from cardboard paper. There were books of
all sizes, pressed together neatly in one row, white and yellow pages
peeking out at me. Some times, when I couldn’t figure it out and she
wasn’t too busy, I had Sister Helen read me the titles. There was one
book, by Milan Kundera, called The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
The unbearable lightness of being.
I wish I could have read it. But then Oz came with its fire, and the
books were burnt down into ashes. I wish that had been my greatest
sacrifice that day.
I’m thinking a lot now, in this cell, about the unbearable lightness of
being, the lyrics from some ancient song spilling from my lips, and I
don’t mind. I don’t mind that Heero sacrificed me. I don’t mind that no
one will come to save me. Around me I could hear explosions, an alarm,
and I realize.
“…Far beneath the ship, the world is mourning. They don’t realize he’s
alive. No one understands, but Major Tom sees. Now the light commands
this is my home, I’m coming home...”
The base is blowing up.
~owari~