Imperfect

Inappropriate for a soldier, don’t you think?

Because I have emotions. I have organs that still function beyond a brain primed for battle. Vines of feeling that snake around my soldier’s soul. You can see them in my eyes, can’t you? That bit of green surrounding blue.

I’m glancing at the corner of the room, at that pair of blue ice eyes. They’re perfectly still, while I can imagine my own, dancing, dancing. Of course. Heero’s had it drilled out of him. He’s Perfect – or as close as people get. I know you’re proud of him.

I must have pride that extends beyond your accomplishments. I can’t perfect myself; I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m Imperfect. But it makes me whole.

Unforgiven. Construed as weakness in the face of tragedy. I can’t retract the gravity of my previous mistakes. I can only comprehend the magnitude of damage done. Zero, I know. Wing Zero. My conductor.

I’ll be sorry for the lives, sorry for the obliteration and loss of sanity. But I have myself back now. Or what remains. And how can I apologise for a piece of my humanity? It’s bleeding back in; it’s filling me up. Compassion. I can’t force it out. I can’t smooth it over. Imperfection glows under the limelight of the stars. And when I get too full, leaks begin to show in me. Usually in my eyes.

You told Heero that Trowa might be dead, and he nodded, silent, blue eyes acknowledging the black situation. He didn’t question the proposition, didn’t go any further, because he doesn’t know how.

Is this the one thing I can do that Perfect can’t? Push on in the face of orders? Realise that attachments are not oblique to my existence? Is this Imperfection?

I don’t stop things that want to be felt. I can hear them pleading, and I won’t let go. I refuse to curb my demon, no matter how many times he appears in my dreams, no matter how many times I have to kill him and hear his screams.

He’s there. Always.

A loss of war isn’t a loss to this flawed heart who can feel, who can hope. Who can listen in blind love because of a spark that won’t shut off. It’s still sparkling. In the crumbling Vayeate of my mind.

That’s quite a personality.

At least I still have one.


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