4Through the eyes of Wolfwood
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Trigun.
Rating: Pg-13
Warnings: Spoilers in later chapters, some yaoi, angst, violence, dark themes.
A/N: I have finished watching the entire series all over again and I thought I would give Trigun Fan fiction a try again. Here we go!
This story follows Wolfwood from childhood until death. Forgive any discrepancies with the story line.
Most children can honestly say that they had a happy childhood, that they were loved and cared for at some point whether it lasted or not. I am one of the few exceptions. From the time I was born, I knew no love, was shown no kindness and as a result…I am a monster.
I have no parents. To put it bluntly my father abused my mother quite terribly and everyone has a breaking point. My mother shot my father and then abandoned me soon after I was born because I looked just like "him". She committed suicide two days later.
I was then put under the care of my uncle on my mother's side, who had little tolerance for children. Not to mention five day old babies. I was sorely neglected, left with soiled diapers and an empty stomach. My only savior was the lady with seven children that lived next door. While my uncle was at work she would slip in and show me the only kindness that I can recall, she was the closest thing to a mother I had.
Eventually I grew up as all babies tend to do, and that's when the true nightmare started. When I was only five years old. I remember my short, fat, balding uncle with piggy eyes and a drawn face walk into my room every night speaking me to in soft tones with a kindness that belied his true intentions. He would always bring my favorite book and a cup of warm Thomas milk, laced with a drug that made my limbs heavy and my mind slow. I can still feel his hands over my small body, the excruciating pain radiating from my core, the blood running down my thighs and staining the sheets. I still have scars.
Once or twice I refused to drink the milk, hoping that he would get frustrated and beat me until he was to weak to lift his belt anymore, at least that would be better than the sickening ritual he did every night. Much to my chagrin, he went through with it anyway. Eventually, I just drank the milk laced though it was. It made the pain a little more bearable.
I remember each morning he would leave the house, patting me once on my head on the way out. After the first three times he took my body, I stopped crying. Crying is for the weak and I have vowed to never cry. Ever. The world doesn't care about your pain and unless you do something yourself they will do nothing to help you, so crying will get you nowhere.
Then one day, I found my uncle's gun. The one he kept in a drawer next to his bed. I remember waiting on the couch for him to get home, feeling the heavy weight of the pistol in my lap and the cold metal under my fingers. He walked in the door and I waited five seconds: One for him to see me, Two for him to see the gun, Three to see him shake with fear, Four for him to say a prayer, and Five for me to pull the trigger. Momentarily my pain was gone.
The first few weeks were heaven. I could do what I wanted when I wanted, which wasn't much granted, and I became quite the little thief. But every night when it came time for all the children to go home, I was always alone. I refused to go back to that hellish place where I had killed my uncle no matter how desperate the situation got. I slept underneath a bench every night with a blanket and what few precious belongings I had, dreaming that things would get better. But would they?
Okay folks this is just a teaser. If I get positive feedback I'll continue the story if not then I'll ditch it. Thanx much! Katty D. P.S. for those reading Angels and Demons, I haven't given up on it, its just on a momentary hiatus.