Oneshots of Ships I like

This isn't a ship

I realize that the title is 'ships I like' but I was reading an intriguing story and wrote this out.

         

Start Time ~2:30 am

Inspired by the first 3 chapters of a story titled Forget-Me-Not by Minubell on the website archiveofourown.org .

Thunder boomed across the average seeming civilization he had found himself in. Flashes of colors ran across the man's eyes. Being of blue, red, green, purple, and white. White. Then black. His scream was so vivid. I could hear it, though no sound was truly cutting through the roar of the sky. I could hear the trauma and terror. The regret and sadness. The loneliness and confusion. The loss and fear of losing. I could hear it. Anyone could. It was the sound of a broken man. I could have cried right then. But I didn't. Part of me wishes I had. To fully express the guilt and sorrow, sympathy and pure worry, for the poor man. Though I am not a part of this man's story; I felt the hunger and sickness. I felt the trauma. The sadness and sense of being completely and utterly alone. I could feel how sorrowful the broken shell of the man he used to be felt. I felt for the broken man who could not remember a thing. He knows of the sky and the trees, the roads and houses, but not a thing of himself. His name, his family or friends, not a thing appeared familiar in his broken mind. He knew of his appearance only from the sad reflection in the window of a store and the 'wanted' poster; plastering an image of him with fewer wounds and far more professional clothing compared to the tattered rags he dawned now. The man had many wounds. He did not know what from but he knew one of them was almost fatal.

He is a man afraid of his own reflection. Afraid of his own shadow. Afraid of other people. He is a man who was terrified to leave the alleyway in fear of the authorities taking him away for crimes he did not recall committing. Breaking him with harsh punishments befitting the wrongs he had no recollection of doing. He left briefly once, before hearing sirens and fleeing in pure terror as to what could happen to him, his broken body and broken mind. He considered giving up and letting himself be taken, if only for shelter and food. He decided against it and stayed in the alleyway with his dull pink knife. He referred to it as 'useless.' A word he referred to himself as. His useless body. His useless mind. His useless knife. He felt as though he was a burden on the world.

He knows of his alias, seeing it scrawled on the posters of his past self, having enough common sense to determine that was but a title. He also knows of his true first name. He had only found out as much when a stranger he had not recognized referred to him as such. The stranger greeted himself as an old friend. David was the name he gave. The man, however, could not tell you if this were true or not. The man scuttles away horrified someone had recognized him. It was only a matter of time before more people did.

David had tried to chase after him. He failed however, as the man was smaller and could squeeze through spaces to get away more efficiently.

He had not eaten in what he had guessed 5-6 days, though he could not be certain due to him waking up and falling back asleep numerous times during his time in the dirty alleyway. Of course, he had tried resorting to the nearby dumpster for food but could not bear the stench that had tainted it for more than a few moments before he had to dry heave himself better. He could not throw up due to nothing being in his stomach to rid of.

David though of the man and of their relationship as friends, and once roommates.

They had lived together before in a home that the sickly man does not recall. David, however, remembers many things about that house. One being why they had left it. David knew why the broken man was wounded. Why he had no memories. Why he and his friends live in separate apartments rather than the shared home they had used to dwell in. He remembers the death of his neighbor and near death of one of his closest friends. That friend also having a great deal to do with the state the man was in.

The broken, scared, and traumatized state of his dear friend he once laughed with. The man he knew was gone. Lost in an explosion. Now he knows of only the body and memory of the man he once called his friend. The man was not dead, do not be mistaken, only forgotten by the mind that was his own.

Though David knew of the incident that led to this he had not known of his friend's alias or secret life outside of their home. He had not known of the man being the leader of many poor souls tricked into doing heinous things or him being known as the leader to countless followers. He only knew of the weapon loving, cigar-smoking, inappropriate-at-times, goofball he was proud to call his friend. The man even had a type of gun he had invented. The one that had a partial play in this story. A gun that could take memories away. The man was a smart fellow and made many inventions. This gun is one of them; though it was never clear what it was created for or who's memories needed to be erased. That of which should be cleared up when one is aware of his alias and position.

David assumed that the man was dead. He assumed he lost his memories in the explosion. Now, however he believes that the man was racked with guilt. So much so he used his own invention on himself. Praying to forget the things he had done.

The man never saw David again. He wondered if David had been his only chance at a life or a new beginning. Too late now. He had to make a new home for himself in a new alleyway. He had been so focused on David and escaping he hadn't noticed the storm growing closer. Only remembering when he sees the colors flash again, another loud crack of thunder booming out shortly after.

The lights always had voices with them. Some whispering, others screaming. He could never pin one down to a person. Now however, he could place David's. He didn't like it. The man preferred the voices without faces to match. Just sounds he stopped listening to weeks ago. The man drags cardboard and wood up to the wall of an abandoned building. Building himself a makeshift home for the time being. He liked building—creating. He knew that much.

The man huddled under the broken wood roof begging the storm be over soon. The man however, had never been particularly lucky.

I am not actually done adding to this but I thought it needed to be shared. It is currently 5 am so I have been typing this for about 3 hours. I hope y'all like what I have so far. I may update this chapter with more if I add anything to it. I made it not as cringey. So enjoy :)

Bye.

-CraZraeOwO