Healing takes time, not repression

Prolouge

A sixteen year old boy sits on a bench near a blown up city behind him, his hair blowing in what seemed to be an everlasting wind. He forced himself to take deep breaths as he looked at the view before him. This spot no longer gave him comfort, it only reminded him of struggles, of war. He glanced to the jukebox next to him. Why did the discs matter to much to begin with? It had started with a simple prank when the server was somewhat new, how had they let it escalate to him choosing the item over people he's trusted? He assumed it was his fault. His fault for not being more responsible, more mature. Like his friend. The same one who would sit on same bench he was on and crack jokes with him, enjoying the breeze going through their hair. 

God how he misses those times. 

The boy rubbed his face, tiredness wearing down most is expression. Finally he had won though. He had won a stupid war with a stupid person over two stupid things. How many people had been lost along the way? How many connections and bonds had been broken because of his irresponsible tendencies? He pulled at the sleeves of his shirt, he still hadn't changed since he had gotten out of exile. His pants were ripped, along with his shirt. His hair was unwashed and skin greasy. Some cuts and bruises left uncared for, along with his unkept bandages he had been told to keep changing out by a mother like figure who seemed to care for the boy, despite every wrong thing he had done. 

He knew people were still after him. He knew more wars, more heart break, was coming. The thought dragged him deeper into agony. He hunched over on the bench, allowing his hands to support his head. He only had trust, true trust, in one person now, even if that person had hurt him in the past, had unknowingly laid out a path to him almost ending it all, he still cared for his friend like he was family. The two practically were. 

He couldn't trust anyone anymore. He knew that. He had to keep reminding himself of that. He had been betrayed several times, yet he couldn't seem to learn his lesson. 

One betrayal was by someone he considered to be a friend. Who he looked up to as they build a country. He was led into a room. That is when he first learned that people could really be cruel.

And besides the minor ones, the second major betrayal he had was his own brotherly figure. The boy remembers being afraid as he watched the older lose his sanity, lose his sense of touch with other people and reality itself. He recalls the nights he would spend awake, trying to get his brother to calm down and rest. He keeps remembering all of it, the shouts, the pleads, the crazy remarks on a country they had built together out of appreciation and care they had for each other and the people around them. 
The next betrayal he had was with his other brotherly figure. He supposed, out of all of them, he deserved this one the most. He never showed how much gratitude he had for the man, how much he looked up to the older. He kept referring to him as a title, not a name. Kept wanting tools from the man, not teaching of how to make them, or wanting him to fight with them, not train with the man to be able to fight efficiently to fight on his own. So it was his own fault really when the two older men sided with each other.
He watched as one of them died and the other try to kill everyone he trusted. 

The next major betrayal came from his own best friend. He chose a country over him, over their bond. He supposed it was a smart choice when he thought about it, the rest of the people wouldn't be hurt this way. It was one person or ten. He really couldn't blame his "partner in crime". Though...the loneliness and hurt that came after was enough to cause an emotional scar. One that he couldn't wipe away, even if he tried. He couldn't look at his friend without wincing or shying away from his touches. 

He shook his head. He couldn't dwell on this. He had work to do, things to complete. The boy went to stand but found he couldn't. He didn't want to. Shakily, the boy let out a sigh. He didn't want to be in anymore wars. He wanted to be a kid. A sixteen year old boy whose actions for being so weren't severely punished. He wanted to be kindly corrected like kids his age usually were. He wanted to have stupid arguments with someone over something silly. He wanted to prank people and not be thrown out of his country into isolation. As much as he said he was a man, he wanted to be a child, he wanted to be given the chance to be. He didn't want to stay. He wanted to go away, to be a kid. To be something he couldn't be here. 

So what was stopping him?

The boy snapped his head up, eyes widened. He could leave. He could take some things and start anew. He grinned slightly at this, before realizing he would be leaving his counterpart here to deal with all the war alone...
What did it matter though? Everyone had always liked the bubbly boy more than him.

With his mind made up, he headed for his shambles of a place he had left, picking up his ender chest and putting items like wood and cobble into his inventory. He crafted a book and quill, deciding that it would be kinder of him to at least leave a note for his friend rather than just run. 

He finished writing, signed and closed the book. He took one last trip to the bench, leaving the book on the jukebox. Hopefully his friend would find the book before anyone else. Even if someone else did, it didn't matter anymore. He was leaving. The boy walked to the edges of the country. It was torn to shreds in some places, other places lay peaceful. He sucked in a breath. He didn't know if he was going to miss it or not. It was intended to be a place were people could go and feel safe. A place where his brothers and him could laugh at stupid things, were he could tease and chase his friends. A place were he COULD'VE been a kid but...it wasn't that and he knew that now as he looked over it. He had finally reached the final stage of grief for this country he tried to raise on his too skinny shoulders. Acceptance. Acceptance of knowing that history will just repeat, no matter the circumstances, no matter the person, and no matter how many times they tried to rebuilt. This country was beyond repair. He knew that now. He turned to the untouched hills beyond the mess behind him with a watery smile. He took a deep breath before taking his first steps into an unknown future. The boy was finally leaving. Finally giving himself a chance to recover. 

Tommyinnit was finally leaving a place he no longer called home.