My Cyrus

Big Fishes' Carnival at The Lake - My Cyrus

Who I am might not be important. What I am, might be a different story.

Like most of living beings, I could remember but blurred images and impaired hearing of how I was born. Have you ever thought about how you grew up from the moment you existed? Before you know it, you know your mom and dad. Before you know it, you can eat, sleep, and play. Before you know it, you know other things in this world. There isn’t really an explanation to this that I could accept – I couldn’t accept those maturity stuff and theory of mind – but in the same confusing, yet pleasingly convenient way, I had come to know her.

Cyrus Washington.

 The first time that I had come to my senses to question her being, I observed her once again and could only describe her as a petite, shy little miss. Yet even if she looked five, her eyes couldn’t hide the truth about her – the truth that she had known pain, for long. Even the female adult that occassionally took care of her didn’t really see it, so it wasn’t her fault that she didn’t do anything about it. At least, I was relieved to realize that Cyrus had that one person from which she didn’t need to hide. She had that one person who cared about her without her returning the favor.

The rest of the world wasn’t so kind. They translated Cyrus’s silent treatment to a vile creature, and so she was stamped as one. I didn’t see how a girl who uttered no single insult could offend everyone around her. I didn’t see how a girl who just wanted herself and her alone could hurt others, and thus I didn’t see how others justify their actions against her. All I see was hatred, and on that note, injustice. And to this injustice, to this raging flame of hatred and disgust burning her inside, arrive no hero.

The female adult was there, only to console, not to stop this cycle of unfairness. Cut on the skin, the magic band healed it. Bruises on the shoulder, the frozen water was there to help. But to the deepening wounds on the soul, nobody saw, nobody cared.

After all those torture that she had gone through while I simply observed, I had come to care more and more about her. She was weak, she had no one but herself. Misunderstood and stood against the world, her feeble figure only saw crying as the solution. So, when she stepped closer and closer to me, I welcomed her.

And I began eating.

“I will protect you,” I promised to her, though she would never hear me. Her wounds, I ate. Her pain, my tidbits. All the insults barraging her ear was filling my stomach. I felt strong, yet not strong enough. So whenever possible, I ate something else: common sense, consciousness, happiness. The only thing I left in her was her tears. She wouldn’t need anything else but her tears, and me. I dare say that I am in love with her.

And thus I whisper.

Look at them; oh, how foolish they are.

Hurting my Cyrus in such a manner – nobody shall.

But oh, dear Cyrus, are you going to let them?

Or are you going to let the blades pierce through them?

She asked me, once, after doing what had to be done. She asked whether there was someone there that cared about her.

“I always do.”

I couldn’t figure out what I am even then. A demon would be far too strong to describe me, and honestly I have no ill intention at all. An illiusion wouldn’t be an oblivion to her, yet she was never even aware of my existence. A hero, then? Doesn’t quite fit the whispering me at all. But why does it matter? Who I am might not be important. Cyrus was all that mattered, and her pain gone was all that I wished for.

Trivia – This story, not accounting the title and this note, is 666 words.