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"What do you want to be when you grow up, Norman?"
The girl with Marigold hair asked him. He became eleven years old that day.
"I...."
'I want to be with you.'
How wonderful it’d be if he could utter those naïve words without preamble and consideration? Albeit, from the start, the circumstances surrounding their House had dictated his wish as nigh unfeasible―and non-negotiable. There’s a time limit presaging their future, in taciturn ticks of the clock it's unstoppable.
Certainly, it's the reason everyone went out of their way to celebrate his last birthday in the House with such grand surprise.
Hence, despite himself, he settled by being ambiguous.
"I promise, I tell you someday, Emma."
"Sure! I'll tab you for it, then!"
At which point, her angelic smile and beatific appearance in coral-pink dress was forever etched into his heart.
But...
But.......
When they stumbled upon the truth of their House, it's like a distant toll of a bell. A sign that their idyllic days were no more.
No. It'd be more correct to say they’re nothing but an illusion.
And anything was better―even those tenacious maladies that attacked him in every turning of seasons―than the realization he's hapless against fate. He's not strong enough, skillful enough, much less mature enough, to protect Emma's smile.
On the contrary, he's always pampered by her purity. Her white canvas, which no matter how many myriads of variable factors had tried diluting it with poisons, would lament their impotence at the end of the day.
"Let's bring them, after all... I want to believe in the family we grew up together."
Good Lord. She never failed to give him the answer he wanted to hear the most.
He's saved by her mercy. It’s silly: he wished he could be like her: victorious against logics. Steadfast among the defeatist.
"I lied."
Notwithstanding. Here he was: being pragmatic and abandoning his own dream―delusion.
It's most odious of him: vilest betrayal of the century. It'd be a lie if he said he wasn’t happy with his best-friends' reactions despite all, of the otherwise rash attempt of his beloved girl endeavoring herself to extricate him from his own damnation, but a martyr he'd be, and ever be, for these precious people who would sacrifice themselves anytime and anywhere for his sake―because the feeling was mutual.
Ah. There’s a tiny part of him still yearning for their warmth as he walked to his own guillotine.
He dragged his shuddering limbs, nonetheless, one step, two steps, three steps.
It's fine. He's fine.
The weightless paper cup in his otherwise empty trunk anchored him with manifold its load.
Heart drumming inside his ribcages and vision wavering with trepidation, he coined his own death.
'I miss Emma.'
As he witnessed the destruction of Lambda facility, he's inundated by the joy of liberation: he's alive―forasmuch as there’s a mean to stave off the dangerous chemicals eating his body out―or the lack thereof―he reflected again. He deflated at that.
Not yet, their reunion can wait.
His need-to-do list was long and urgent with its responsibility.
He couldn't just reappeared before her and disappeared again for his own convenience. Providence above forbid, twice the pain of separation may befall the girl who’s the personification of the sun.
In retrospect, he found himself adopting James Ratri’s nom de plume―【William Minerva】―denying his existence―so it may ring far and wide by the end of Neverland, but it wouldn’t subjected his family with the anguish of estrangement.
Still.
Yet again, the world played him like a fiddle. There’s always contingencies he'd miss, insomuch as he's foible―and he'd to pay with his life. He ought to.
His sin kept piling up―down, down, down, he's falling into the rabbit hole.
Peter Ratri was a man of intelligence―albeit, directed in misplaced virtue―so meticulous in his method―he pinpointed the 'shelter' 'William Minerva' had camouflaged under the moon's watchful gaze and consequently, the thirteen old years him was forced to confront a deed he’s most afraid to commit. Hurting her.
She came like a storm. For nothing so much as he strove to detach himself from emotion―further from the fear rumbling within his mind―she’d offer him solace beyond what he deserved.
All in all, his fortified defense was paper thin―His true thought inadvertently leaked out―under the scrutiny of her indulging sincerity.
"Let's live together, Norman."
She's breathless, sweats glistening. Their coats begrimed with dusts and stains, small cuts peppered their skins―their appearances were far from presentable, which spoke volumes of their exertion. Still, the two of them extended their hands to him―his crime was exposed, but it's a definite smile plastered on their miens, neither of them flinched in the face of his transgressions, either.
And being the coward, pathetic man―Not God. Not Devil. Just Norman―he was, his dam burst unbidden. He's truly a child. A child embracing another’s ideal, a child donning another’s identity and a child living on borrowed time.
Even tainted, she'd spared him nothing less but an unconditional love. For in single effortless motion, she spoiled him within her arms. At that juncture, he knew he's back at home.
Death came. In unknown number and place.
The battle had been fought, and it's now over.
He lost his most important person: Emma.
Something must be wrong with him, this oversight and ineptitude were a distant departure from his modus operandi―It might be Divine punishment for all he cared and be incautious toward lessening her penance―Ironic indeed, karma was real as much as the burning pain in his chest was.
It's not like the universe could change its course on a dime, but he could feel himself veering off with each passing second, with each red cross marking their map.
Sometimes, he wondered: to what length she knew the truth of this world?
Two mirroring worlds:
Demon namuH
Human nomeD
Supposedly his genocide plan borne a fruit, would that be equal to the eradication of humanity on this side? There’re clues:
Pandemonium = War
Usurpation = Resolution
Poison = Pandemic
Farm raids = Corps failures
A new regime = World unification
They’re faithful reflection.
How much she struggled to come up with 'the best possible choice'? With what emotion did she part with her most dearest family? Hundred of questions filled the blank in lieu of her presence.
No matter what, he couldn’t ask her anymore. He's late. Emma is death.
The girl in front of him was a different person.
"Even so...I want to be with you... I want us to laugh together...." He croaked.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I couldn’t honor our promise. It's too late. Time won’t rewind back for us.
Nonetheless, he's sure as he’s sure the sun would rise morrow morn', he'd stumble upon love once more. Whether through millions of Hell or Heaven, through billions of parting or reunion, through the endless pain or happiness, he’d arrive at the same conclusion.
Because the only love he knew, it's hers. Only hers.