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* Circles of Time: A Sailormoon Fanfic Series *
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* Visit the Web site at: *
* http://www.geocities.com/tokyo/9897/ct.htm *
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THE INFAMOUS DISCLAIMER:
Sailormoon and the characters of "Bishoujo Senshi Sailormoon" were created and
belong to Takeuchi Naoko. Other companies such as Kodansha, Toei Animation,
Bandai, and Mixx Entertainment hold rights to the show and/or manga. In other
words, I do not. My stories and the characters I create belong to me. And if
you use any of my characters or stories without my permission I will send Tuxedo
Kamen after you with his cane! (I mean it!)
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To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin?
~ Hamlet: Act III, Scene I
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Circles of Time: The Letter
By: Masked Maiden
Prologue: From the Darkness
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Summer, 2001
Tokyo, Japan
Minato-ku District
Her life was nothing but a collection of frozen memories under translucent
barriers. They were scattered all over the top of her maple dresser in shiny
silver frames. There was a scarlet red tapestry under them, the tassels falling
off the sides. Photographs and a couple of pictures drawn by a child's hands.
Her beautiful, frozen memories.
The very first photograph showed a young woman in her mid twenties gently
cradling her newborn son. Her long, raven black hair was damp with sweat and
matted behind her ears. There was a heavy exhaustion etched on her face, but a
smile from to ear was upon her face as she gazed lovingly at her baby. The
strong arms of her husband were loosely draped around her shoulders. He was
looking over her shoulders, trying to hold back the tears.
The next photograph was of a four-year-old boy wearing a white and blue
pinstriped baseball uniform with a blue baseball cap to top it off. He didn't
have a bat, but he did have a pitcher's glove that was two sizes too big for
him. There was a ball in his other hand, and he looked as if he was ready to
throw it. The photograph besides it was taken a year later, which showed the
same little boy in his new school uniform.
One of the pictures at the end of the dresser was of just she and her husband.
It had been taken a couple years after they were married, before their son was
born. They stood next to each other, holding each other close. So very close -
like there was a red ribbon tied around them and nobody was able to cut it.
All the pictures were about the same. There were mostly pictures of her, her
husband, and her son. But her very favorite picture was the one in the center
of the dresser. It was of portrait of the happy family. A friend of theirs had
taken the picture during the usual trip to the nearby park. Her husband was
leaning on a cherry tree, his elbow supporting him. His other hand was on his
wife's right shoulder. Her son was standing besides her, tightly hugging her
leg. She had her hand upon the back of his neck, tickling him to get him to
smile. It had worked too.
That was the last picture ever taken of them together.
So now, where was the young woman in those memories? She was gone. Or at
least, she wanted to be gone. She was replaced by the older reflection in the
mirror. The reflections showed her after nineteen years of aging; however, she
held twice as many years of sorrow and pain inside her heart. He long,
beautiful raven black hair was now turning gray. She had to wear glasses to
see, and she was beginning to notice that a few wrinkles were showing up. But
nothing had changed her dark brown eyes. They were the only things that had
stayed youthful over the years. Yet sorrow had captured that youth as well.
For some reason on that particular day, it was hard for her to face her own
image. To even look at it reminded her of her failures. She noticed how pale
she looked, and the dark bags under her eyes. Her body was tired, even after
sleeping in late. There was a sense of feeling small and inadequate. She felt
she was locked up in a small room where the walls were closing in on her.
How long had she felt this way?
When was the last time she smiled?
The woman looked down, away from her reflection. She opened her jewelry box and
took out, not jewelry, but a bottle of pills she kept well hidden. She popped
the lid off and took out a handful of those pills. (Five, six, seven, eight...
she didn't really count them, and it really didn't matter how many there were.
The more the better in her case. It was still an overdose.)
Her entire world had been shattered and taken away from her piece by piece. In
a blink of an eye she had lost her loving husband and her only child. They had
been snatched away and taken to heaven after that fatal accident almost nineteen
years ago.
Why did she have to be the only one to survive?
She took every single one of those pills in her hand and washed them all down
with a glass of red wine.
God took her life away from her. So what did He expect out of her? To keep on
living? How could she go on living without her life?
The best thing for her to do was just to end it all...
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End of Introduction
Do not be overwicked, and do not be a fool -- Why die before your time?
~ Ecclesiastics 7:17
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geocities.com/tokyo)