Whispers of the Wicked Past
By Kayu-chan

~What do you think of the title? If you've got a better one, give the
suggestion to me.
This is a new, rough draft story of mine and was written as well as and not
instead of my other fics (Hard To Say Goodbye and Eve). Please tell me what
you think of it. Lay both C and C on thick. Thanks. ^_^ ~

~Disclaimer: Ranma 1/2 characters are copywrited to the ingenius of Rumiko
Takahashi and company. I _own nothing_ on these characters or their 
"unusual" situations. Ranma 1/2 characters used without permission.~

Prologue: 
Loneliness

       It's over, finally over.  It's time to move on. But why is it so
hard to do?  Why?
       A passionate breeze sweeps the young man out of deep thought and he
looks at the piece of cloth in his fist, inscribed with a delicate Chinese
pattern.  Kneeling down on the dry, brittle grass he knots it around the
piece of wood jutting out of the ground.  A few tears moisten the edges of
his darkening eyes as he stares at the knotted piece of wood. 
      "Just a few more inches...a-and I wouldn't have to feel this way," he
tells it, his voice breaking with emotion.  "I'm so sorry that this is all
I could do for you...  You deserve so much more for what you did." He
stands up, still staring down at the wood.  The cloth struggles to follow
the cooling wind and flies into the dark night air.  A slight, curling
smile crawls onto his lips bittersweetly and he gazes into the black sky
sewn with sparkling stars.  "I should have known that you wouldn't let me
leave a memorial for him.  He saved this Earth and so you wipe out all his
traces of existence!  You forgot about me though, didn't you?  I'm still
here and I remember everything!"    
     Recollections of reality abruptly hit him hard.  Seventeen years old
and with no-one - that's the way it will always be thanks to fate.  Always.
How he _hated_ that word.
     Taking a penknife out of his pocket, his rough, weary hands examine
the glint of the blade against the faded moonlight.  One stroke across the
throat.  That's all it would take to end this life.  He feels dead with
guilt, anyway.  With guilt and the truth only he bears with in his
shattered life.  But what about his friend's death?
     "Here goes..." He clutches the penknife tightly and lashing out,
carves a name into the wood.  Pressing the blade to his thumb, blood kisses
metal.  Drops of it are smeared across the memorial. "You can't deny my
blood and so you can't deny his sacrifice. Reality, I hate you."
      
~This may seem awfully short but it's just a taster for the much larger
chapter 1.~