May. 18, 2011 3:00 AM
Crystal trudged slowly up the steep gravel path, the sun hot on her back and her loose, long hair plastered wetly to her face, the sharp stones crunching and grating beneath her sandals. She ignored the sting as some of the smaller fragments got caught between her toes and dug into her exposed skin. She was used to it after all; she had strode down the path many a time before, sometimes until her feet had bled from struggling up the slope.
Her village's church was a very quiet, secluded place and when that was coupled with the fact it had been built on a hill and was surrounded by crags rising up on all sides, it was no wonder not many people considered worth it the risk, let alone the time to venture there and visit it. But to her, it was worth a lot more than anyone would ever understand.
Her ragged breaths came out in short shallow gasps. Her chest heaved. Her muscles were heavy, felt like lead. Droplets glistened in her hair and rolled off her face. The trek had taken a toll on her ever since she could remember. A small, dry chuckle. It was always the same. Nothing had changed. She slumped onto a nearby boulder, raising a hand to lift the hair out of her face and to roughly swipe the excess moisture out of her eyes.
Before her stood the church, an ancient (somewhat rundown) stone edifice built in a perpendicular style with lancet windows, almost choked by the ivy and other plants climbing up the walls. The few trees dotted about here and there were gnarled and pallid, their feeble, brittle branches as dry as bone, reaching to the clear summer sky like skeletal fingers. There was little to no foilage to speak of and the grass had long rotted away. Overall the place looked dead, for lack of a better word. It was as empty and silent as the lost souls dwelling beneath its grounds. Just like the ruins of the house she had once called home back in the village, Crystal thought dully.
Hauling herself to her feet, she wove her way through the masses of gravestones. Her legs seemed to lead her of their own accord until she came to a standstill before two graves which stood to the back, almost solitary. A sigh escaped her lips as she thought back to a particular day.
Crystal sat idly on a bench in the park, staring into space, her hazel pools unseeing. The shouts and cheers of the children playing on the swings and Beyblading and the barking of dogs reached her ears but did not register. Even the warm sun shining down from the endless, cloudless expanse of sapphire above did little to improve her mood.
There had been a time when she had played in a place just like this, beating the resident bully in the first Beybattle she had ever won at the risk of getting beaten up herself for defending those he had hurt - which she did despite being the victor. Back then, she had been too scared to stand up to people like him and in an act driven by anger (which had momentarily dissolved her fear) after seeing him injure fellow Beybladers and crush their blades, she had demanded a battle. The rush of satisfaction and pride at beating him at his own game had been like nothing she had ever felt before. That emotion motivated her to become stronger so she could win more and maybe, just maybe, she would one day be able to take on the people who had destroyed her family.
A grim smile crossed her face. How naive she had been, thinking that getting stronger would help her get revenge. She knew now it would take a lot more than that. It had already been thirteen years since that fateful incident which had shattered her world and that carp was still breathing. Her hand clenched the Beyblade in her pocket so tightly her knuckles turned white and her arm shook. How much longer would she have to bear this anguish and torment? How much longer would her ruined childhood and shrouded future eat away at her soul? How much longer would she spend collecting up the fragments of her dreams and her heart?
Although coming to Japan had helped her start life anew, her existence was still tainted by his presence; peace would only reign in the wake of retribution. It was not long until she went on her annual trip to the UK to visit her parents' graves and she knew that she would once again have to beg their souls for forgiveness. No progress had been made, like always. Until revenge was exacted and her twin was found, both she and her grandmother would never truly be complete.
It had been over a decade since the death of her parents yet the memories remained burned into her brain to this day, she reflected.She had been only six years old when it happened. Her hazel eyes glazed over in remembrance.
At that time, we lived in the UK in a quaint, cosy house. Just the three of us. It was sublime and tranquil, being on the outskirts of a small town not far from the Cambridge suburbs. My grandmother (on my mother's side) lived about ten or twenty minutes away. My father worked as a scientist in genetics and was a former RAF pilot and my mother, an accountant previously, worked with the Civil Service. We were reasonably well off.
That day was like any other; my parents came home from work, I returned from infant school full of energy and stories about what I had seen and done. Mum and Dad just loved to hear what I had been up to and it had a surprisingly good day for me with no bullying from the other kids or the teachers. I used to suffer a lot of verbal and physical abuse at school but they would always stand up for me when everyone else did nothing. They were protective because I was the only child they had left after my twin vanished mysteriously as a baby. They had not been able to find her since then.
Everything went well up until that night. We went to bed looking forward to the weekend and spending some quality time together as a family. But those hopes were dashed.
Crystal squeezed her eyes against the vivid visions flooding her mind but to no avail. They would not stop coming. Her breath hitched and her heart raced. Her stomach twisted in revulsion. It was like she was there once again, experiencing that fateful night. She could smell the smoke and scorching flesh, feel the putrid, intoxicating fumes clog her throat, hear the anguished screams, taste the metallic, sickening sweetness of blood, see the corpses fall to the ground with a chilling finality.
Loud crashing noises woke us up and the whole house rocked on its foundations in an explosion. Alarms rent the air...there were shouts and screams...flames and unbearable heat on all sides, she remembered. I was grabbed roughly by the collar of my nightie and hauled down the stairs. No matter how much I screamed and struggled, nobody came to help me. I was thrown to the floor to see my parents wounded but fighting resolutely against some people dressed all in black. They were blocking the way to the fireplace because it was on the mantle piece. The heirloom passed down for generations in my family - a statue. That was when I realised what those strangers were after.
Her gloved hand moved by itself, automatically reaching into her pocket to draw out her Beyblade. Her thumb absently caressed the Bit Chip.
It was this; the Starcorn. I remember being told never to let it fall into the wrong hands because the power of its purity was both a gift and a curse. It could be tainted and defiled by evil just as easily as it could defeat it.
Seeing my parents' determination to defend it, the man who had captured me held a gun to my head and threatened to kill me if they did not surrender. The others took advantage of their hesitance and knifed them many times over. Another, a tall, cruel old man - Voltaire - then kicked them aside and seized the statue.
I knew I had to do something. If they managed to get away with Starcorn, that would be it. Despite being terrified and distraught, I gathered up my courage and bit my captor's hand. He dropped me. I rushed over to Voltaire, trying everything I could to get it back. I kicked, bit, punched...but he would always beat me down.
I didn't notice the other man raise his pistol along with his cronies'. They fired but nothing hit me. Mum had shielded me with her body and we had lain flat on the ground. She took a few bullets but they missed for the most part.
Meanwhile, Dad had knocked Voltaire to the floor and retrieved the statue. He hurried over and threw himself down to avoid the gunfire, gave it to me and told me to run as fast as I could to the window when he gave the signal. He did so not long after (there was a pause because they had to reload) and I ran, dodging the mens' attempts to catch me. I scrambled with considerable effort on to the windowsill and fiddled with the latch. It refused to open. Then it happened.
Her eyes flickered open to fix on the image of her Bit Beast in a daze. My captor fired without warning. There were these awful screams. The glass shattered, cut me, blinded me. I saw scarlet spurt through the air and my parents' blurred bodies hit the floor. They had died protecting me from him. She choked down the tears.
The man who had fired came at me in a whirl of purple and dark green; the colours of his hair and trench coat. My vision came into focus again and his white-gloved hands tried to prise the statue from my grasp. When that didn't work he resorted to strangling me.
I gasped and gagged for air. I lashed out and kicked his nose and his strange black glasses fell to the floor. I knew then I would never forget his face. He kept his grip on me all the same but held me at an arm's length. I heard one of his men mumble something incoherent (Russian, I was to find out later). "Boris" was the only thing I could make out and I memorised it. His grasp became a death-grip. Back then, I really thought that was the end. I welcomed it because I had nothing left. I was alone. My parents were gone.
Fate had other ideas. There was a flash from the statue; Boris, Voltaire and the men were sent flying. I went through the window and escaped.
Somebody had called the emergency services. I was picked up. When they got to the house, everything was ruined and Boris and the others had got away.
The Starcorn transferred itself from the statue to my blade that same night after I had been collected by Grandma; it chose me to protect it and promised to return the favour. I had been Beyblading for only two years then. My parents used to play against me before they died.
For some strange reason, she wanted it be raining right now; wanted it to pour down like no tomorrow in unrelenting icy sheets, the lightning to blind her, the thunder to crash so loud it would drown out everything. She wanted to be soaked and chilled to the bone. Anything but the warm sun and clear skies above mocking her. Anything that would quell the storm raging within.
Crystal knelt down, fingers tracing the names of her family engraved on the stone. "Here I am, once again asking you to forgive me after yet more time passing with me as a failure." Her voice came out almost inaudibly. "Remembering the night on that afternoon in Bay City park last week made me realise just how useless I've been..."
Her forehead was pressed into unyielding granite as she leaned heavily against the gravestone. She bowed her head. Her hair fell forward and hid her face in a curtain of brown-gold tresses. Dark spots speckled the dry ground; teardrops fell like rain.
She wept from anger, frustration, pain, grief and guilt. Anger at herself for not being able to make any progress all these years. Frustration that Boris was still out there. Pain from having to relive the past. Grief at how everything remained in pieces. Guilt that others at that moment could be suffering as she was.
I will do whatever it takes to bring Boris down! I won't let what happened to my family happen to any of my precious friends. Her eyes clamped shut and her stiff form shook. If it did, I don't know what I'd do...
Long after her quiet sobs had faded, Crystal sat back to stare at the grave. Her cheeks felt taut and sticky from the drying tear stains. She made no move to wipe them away; to do so would be to deny the guilt and shame of being a failure for the umpteenth time. Only from now on, things would be different. She would make sure things would be different. Her hand slipped into a pocket to take out her Beyblade. Inhaling and exhaling through her nose to calm herself, she voiced the mental promise she had made amidst her despair.
"I swear on your memory and your graves, the bonds I have with my friends and Starcorn's power that I will put Boris away for good. No matter what it takes, he will go down. I won't let him or BIOVOLT make anyone else suffer the way we did and get away with it. You have my word that even if I fail, I'll keep my resolve to never give up until it's done."
Starcorn's whinny echoed in her mind. Somehow, it all felt strangely uplifting. Perhaps there was hope after all for her to escape the hell in which she had been trapped for so long.
Around her, the land and sky were silent and soulless yet were bearing witness to a once disquieted spirit that was valiantly striving to forge a way to the future so that her life and her heart would be whole once more.
Her lips curved upward. She could imagine the looks on her friends' faces when she returned to Japan after this. They would definitely be surprised, to say the least. Melancholic silence usually drowned Crystal there and back, so weighed down was she by guilt. Hence all they could do was try and be there for her. The team had never forced her to feel any kind of false hope or lulled her into a false sense of security and for that, she was grateful. When she reunited with them, she would truly be able to say - for the first time - that she was going to move forward.
Her village's church was a very quiet, secluded place and when that was coupled with the fact it had been built on a hill and was surrounded by crags rising up on all sides, it was no wonder not many people considered worth it the risk, let alone the time to venture there and visit it. But to her, it was worth a lot more than anyone would ever understand.
Her ragged breaths came out in short shallow gasps. Her chest heaved. Her muscles were heavy, felt like lead. Droplets glistened in her hair and rolled off her face. The trek had taken a toll on her ever since she could remember. A small, dry chuckle. It was always the same. Nothing had changed. She slumped onto a nearby boulder, raising a hand to lift the hair out of her face and to roughly swipe the excess moisture out of her eyes.
Before her stood the church, an ancient (somewhat rundown) stone edifice built in a perpendicular style with lancet windows, almost choked by the ivy and other plants climbing up the walls. The few trees dotted about here and there were gnarled and pallid, their feeble, brittle branches as dry as bone, reaching to the clear summer sky like skeletal fingers. There was little to no foilage to speak of and the grass had long rotted away. Overall the place looked dead, for lack of a better word. It was as empty and silent as the lost souls dwelling beneath its grounds. Just like the ruins of the house she had once called home back in the village, Crystal thought dully.
Hauling herself to her feet, she wove her way through the masses of gravestones. Her legs seemed to lead her of their own accord until she came to a standstill before two graves which stood to the back, almost solitary. A sigh escaped her lips as she thought back to a particular day.
Crystal sat idly on a bench in the park, staring into space, her hazel pools unseeing. The shouts and cheers of the children playing on the swings and Beyblading and the barking of dogs reached her ears but did not register. Even the warm sun shining down from the endless, cloudless expanse of sapphire above did little to improve her mood.
There had been a time when she had played in a place just like this, beating the resident bully in the first Beybattle she had ever won at the risk of getting beaten up herself for defending those he had hurt - which she did despite being the victor. Back then, she had been too scared to stand up to people like him and in an act driven by anger (which had momentarily dissolved her fear) after seeing him injure fellow Beybladers and crush their blades, she had demanded a battle. The rush of satisfaction and pride at beating him at his own game had been like nothing she had ever felt before. That emotion motivated her to become stronger so she could win more and maybe, just maybe, she would one day be able to take on the people who had destroyed her family.
A grim smile crossed her face. How naive she had been, thinking that getting stronger would help her get revenge. She knew now it would take a lot more than that. It had already been thirteen years since that fateful incident which had shattered her world and that carp was still breathing. Her hand clenched the Beyblade in her pocket so tightly her knuckles turned white and her arm shook. How much longer would she have to bear this anguish and torment? How much longer would her ruined childhood and shrouded future eat away at her soul? How much longer would she spend collecting up the fragments of her dreams and her heart?
Although coming to Japan had helped her start life anew, her existence was still tainted by his presence; peace would only reign in the wake of retribution. It was not long until she went on her annual trip to the UK to visit her parents' graves and she knew that she would once again have to beg their souls for forgiveness. No progress had been made, like always. Until revenge was exacted and her twin was found, both she and her grandmother would never truly be complete.
It had been over a decade since the death of her parents yet the memories remained burned into her brain to this day, she reflected.She had been only six years old when it happened. Her hazel eyes glazed over in remembrance.
At that time, we lived in the UK in a quaint, cosy house. Just the three of us. It was sublime and tranquil, being on the outskirts of a small town not far from the Cambridge suburbs. My grandmother (on my mother's side) lived about ten or twenty minutes away. My father worked as a scientist in genetics and was a former RAF pilot and my mother, an accountant previously, worked with the Civil Service. We were reasonably well off.
That day was like any other; my parents came home from work, I returned from infant school full of energy and stories about what I had seen and done. Mum and Dad just loved to hear what I had been up to and it had a surprisingly good day for me with no bullying from the other kids or the teachers. I used to suffer a lot of verbal and physical abuse at school but they would always stand up for me when everyone else did nothing. They were protective because I was the only child they had left after my twin vanished mysteriously as a baby. They had not been able to find her since then.
Everything went well up until that night. We went to bed looking forward to the weekend and spending some quality time together as a family. But those hopes were dashed.
Crystal squeezed her eyes against the vivid visions flooding her mind but to no avail. They would not stop coming. Her breath hitched and her heart raced. Her stomach twisted in revulsion. It was like she was there once again, experiencing that fateful night. She could smell the smoke and scorching flesh, feel the putrid, intoxicating fumes clog her throat, hear the anguished screams, taste the metallic, sickening sweetness of blood, see the corpses fall to the ground with a chilling finality.
Loud crashing noises woke us up and the whole house rocked on its foundations in an explosion. Alarms rent the air...there were shouts and screams...flames and unbearable heat on all sides, she remembered. I was grabbed roughly by the collar of my nightie and hauled down the stairs. No matter how much I screamed and struggled, nobody came to help me. I was thrown to the floor to see my parents wounded but fighting resolutely against some people dressed all in black. They were blocking the way to the fireplace because it was on the mantle piece. The heirloom passed down for generations in my family - a statue. That was when I realised what those strangers were after.
Her gloved hand moved by itself, automatically reaching into her pocket to draw out her Beyblade. Her thumb absently caressed the Bit Chip.
It was this; the Starcorn. I remember being told never to let it fall into the wrong hands because the power of its purity was both a gift and a curse. It could be tainted and defiled by evil just as easily as it could defeat it.
Seeing my parents' determination to defend it, the man who had captured me held a gun to my head and threatened to kill me if they did not surrender. The others took advantage of their hesitance and knifed them many times over. Another, a tall, cruel old man - Voltaire - then kicked them aside and seized the statue.
I knew I had to do something. If they managed to get away with Starcorn, that would be it. Despite being terrified and distraught, I gathered up my courage and bit my captor's hand. He dropped me. I rushed over to Voltaire, trying everything I could to get it back. I kicked, bit, punched...but he would always beat me down.
I didn't notice the other man raise his pistol along with his cronies'. They fired but nothing hit me. Mum had shielded me with her body and we had lain flat on the ground. She took a few bullets but they missed for the most part.
Meanwhile, Dad had knocked Voltaire to the floor and retrieved the statue. He hurried over and threw himself down to avoid the gunfire, gave it to me and told me to run as fast as I could to the window when he gave the signal. He did so not long after (there was a pause because they had to reload) and I ran, dodging the mens' attempts to catch me. I scrambled with considerable effort on to the windowsill and fiddled with the latch. It refused to open. Then it happened.
Her eyes flickered open to fix on the image of her Bit Beast in a daze. My captor fired without warning. There were these awful screams. The glass shattered, cut me, blinded me. I saw scarlet spurt through the air and my parents' blurred bodies hit the floor. They had died protecting me from him. She choked down the tears.
The man who had fired came at me in a whirl of purple and dark green; the colours of his hair and trench coat. My vision came into focus again and his white-gloved hands tried to prise the statue from my grasp. When that didn't work he resorted to strangling me.
I gasped and gagged for air. I lashed out and kicked his nose and his strange black glasses fell to the floor. I knew then I would never forget his face. He kept his grip on me all the same but held me at an arm's length. I heard one of his men mumble something incoherent (Russian, I was to find out later). "Boris" was the only thing I could make out and I memorised it. His grasp became a death-grip. Back then, I really thought that was the end. I welcomed it because I had nothing left. I was alone. My parents were gone.
Fate had other ideas. There was a flash from the statue; Boris, Voltaire and the men were sent flying. I went through the window and escaped.
Somebody had called the emergency services. I was picked up. When they got to the house, everything was ruined and Boris and the others had got away.
The Starcorn transferred itself from the statue to my blade that same night after I had been collected by Grandma; it chose me to protect it and promised to return the favour. I had been Beyblading for only two years then. My parents used to play against me before they died.
For some strange reason, she wanted it be raining right now; wanted it to pour down like no tomorrow in unrelenting icy sheets, the lightning to blind her, the thunder to crash so loud it would drown out everything. She wanted to be soaked and chilled to the bone. Anything but the warm sun and clear skies above mocking her. Anything that would quell the storm raging within.
Crystal knelt down, fingers tracing the names of her family engraved on the stone. "Here I am, once again asking you to forgive me after yet more time passing with me as a failure." Her voice came out almost inaudibly. "Remembering the night on that afternoon in Bay City park last week made me realise just how useless I've been..."
Her forehead was pressed into unyielding granite as she leaned heavily against the gravestone. She bowed her head. Her hair fell forward and hid her face in a curtain of brown-gold tresses. Dark spots speckled the dry ground; teardrops fell like rain.
She wept from anger, frustration, pain, grief and guilt. Anger at herself for not being able to make any progress all these years. Frustration that Boris was still out there. Pain from having to relive the past. Grief at how everything remained in pieces. Guilt that others at that moment could be suffering as she was.
I will do whatever it takes to bring Boris down! I won't let what happened to my family happen to any of my precious friends. Her eyes clamped shut and her stiff form shook. If it did, I don't know what I'd do...
Long after her quiet sobs had faded, Crystal sat back to stare at the grave. Her cheeks felt taut and sticky from the drying tear stains. She made no move to wipe them away; to do so would be to deny the guilt and shame of being a failure for the umpteenth time. Only from now on, things would be different. She would make sure things would be different. Her hand slipped into a pocket to take out her Beyblade. Inhaling and exhaling through her nose to calm herself, she voiced the mental promise she had made amidst her despair.
"I swear on your memory and your graves, the bonds I have with my friends and Starcorn's power that I will put Boris away for good. No matter what it takes, he will go down. I won't let him or BIOVOLT make anyone else suffer the way we did and get away with it. You have my word that even if I fail, I'll keep my resolve to never give up until it's done."
Starcorn's whinny echoed in her mind. Somehow, it all felt strangely uplifting. Perhaps there was hope after all for her to escape the hell in which she had been trapped for so long.
Around her, the land and sky were silent and soulless yet were bearing witness to a once disquieted spirit that was valiantly striving to forge a way to the future so that her life and her heart would be whole once more.
Her lips curved upward. She could imagine the looks on her friends' faces when she returned to Japan after this. They would definitely be surprised, to say the least. Melancholic silence usually drowned Crystal there and back, so weighed down was she by guilt. Hence all they could do was try and be there for her. The team had never forced her to feel any kind of false hope or lulled her into a false sense of security and for that, she was grateful. When she reunited with them, she would truly be able to say - for the first time - that she was going to move forward.
I love to write stories and rpgs are right up my street. Crystal Guradeuishi is my character for Beyblade RPGs. As you may have worked out from the above passage, she is half-Japanese. Her father was Japanese and her mother was English. It is unknown what happened to her twin though. I am still working on when to introduce her into Crystal's storyline.
I'm glad to hear it. It's good to know you liked what I wrote. I will be adding more once get back to where I RPG.