saradrawing

Like… Imagine you are a boy. A lonely boy, a boy who’s been hurt his entire life, a boy who was given a gun at the age of five and taught to kill mercilessly without hesitation. You’re constantly told you’re not good enough, that nobody will ever want you for you, that you’ll only ever be a weapon; you’re worth nothing more than that, nothing less. The more skill you have, the more value you hold; if you do a job well you’ll be worth something, if you fail you’ll probably get beat or tossed out, considered less than dirt by your own shitty father. You’re not a boy, not really. You’re a gun, and the minute you miss a shot you’re worthless. You learn that no, you can’t be a kid—being a kid is not for you. You don’t have time for stupid birthday parties or immature little kid games when you’re too busy fighting in war zones or getting shot at in Cambodia. You teach yourself not to feel; remorse and regret are pointless when you’re a hitman, and so is love—you never have childhood crushes or fancy any of the pretty girls at your school. You think it’s stupid. You’ve never been interested in girls anyway, and your father once threatened to shoot you if you ever tried the alternative, so you lock your heart away, stuff it into a box and cram it into a safe and set fifty different code-combination locks and wrap chains around it so that you can’t feel.

And then one day, some skinny rich kid with sticky fingers shows up, and just won’t leave you alone. Okay, you think to yourself. No biggie. He’s just some spoiled brat with too much time on his hands who doesn’t know what he’s getting into. But then this kid starts treating you like you’re worth something, like you’re some sort of treasure he values, something he wants to chase; and not for your quick draw, either. This monkey-faced little brat seems to only want to know more about you, and play stupid kid games with you. He’s annoying, but the trouble he gets into is fun enough, even if you always end up having to bail him out. You find out that this kid is a thrill-seeker, and much to your surprise, he considers you thrilling. You’ve never had friends before, but this feels like something else. The way he looks at you makes your stomach fuzzy with a feeling you’re not entirely sure what to think of, and no matter how many times you walk away you always find yourself drawn to him. You’re reminded of what your father threatened to do at that, so you tuck that feeling away with all the others.

But then, this bastard “friend” of yours does something you never expected; he chips away at the walls you’ve built, carefully picks the locks holding chains around your heart with nimble, practiced fingers. He pries at that safe of yours like it’s fun, like it’s some sort of challenge for him (he likes challenges, you’ve come to find) and finds out those combinations of yours with thieving expertise. And then, as if none of your past matters, as if all those thousands of walls of defence you built and security lasers you set and safety precautions you took are absolutely nothing to him, he reaches forward and places a skinny hand over your chest and takes what he wants, like he’s always done. He holds you in the palm of his hand like you’re something precious, a valued piece of artwork in a renowned museum that he’s taken the liberty of nabbing, and you let him. You let him steal you like some pretty piece of jewelry. You let him pull you from the shitty life you live with that shitty dad of yours and steal you away, even though you’re scared out of your mind of intimacy. You’re alone in the dark of that cramped little safe that you’ve locked yourself away in your entire life, and he picks the lock with a bobby pin and reaches for you and grabs your hand; and then suddenly, you’re not so alone anymore. Suddenly you’re more than a gun, you’re Jigen Daisuke, and Lupin the Third wants you like he would a priceless ruby on display in the hall of a rich man’s mansion.

You are an extremely intelligent child and at the same time, extremely sensitive. And you are alone. Something happened with your mother, something traumatic that you don't remember or don't want to remember. You barely see your absent father and each time you are more convinced that he doesn't love you. Your only "family" is your grandfather, a crazy man who has been psychologically abusing you since you were a child and is obsessed with you following in his footsteps. Because yes, whether you like it or not, that cool man like Lupin 1 is perfidious, manipulative and egomaniacal. That grandfather who told you when you were very little "you're hungry, do you want to eat? Well, open the safe or don't eat." That grandfather capable of killing you to get your heart. Literally.

He probably told you not to cry, that crying was cowardly. You are a tool, a clone of your father and grandfather, who must follow the family tradition. 

You can't believe that your own family could treat you so badly. So you invent a way of being, a way of hiding your pain beneath false carelessness, exaggerated optimism, always smiling, pretending that nothing affects you. You are the almighty Lupin III, damn, you will be like your great grandfather and your great father, selfish, indestructible, insensitive, only you and your victories matter. You are rich, powerful, you can get whatever you want when you want.

Well, in fact, no. You cannot.

And when no one can see you, you take off your mask and you're just a scared, hurt, abandoned kid. 

Then he arrives. That lonely, mysterious boy. God, how cool he is, he looks like the hero of a movie, with his gun and his tough gesture. But that is not all. When you look at him, you feel something strange. Security. Comfort. Calm. There is something in those eyes that makes you feel calm. And you need someone like that. Someone you can trust, someone to protect you, someone to listen to you. You know he could be that person, but when you try to get closer, he pulls away. In a short time, your hypersensitivity and your acute intelligence realize that this lonely boy carries great sadness and pain almost as strong as yours, and that makes you feel more attached to him. 

On the one hand you want to make that boy happy, and on the other hand, you desperately need him to stay by your side. 

So you must manage to cajole him. And in your style, carefree, thuggish, elegant and charmingly trickster. And boy, you get it, it costs you but you get it.

And everything is just as you thought. That boy knows. He knows how to defend himself and you, he knows how to organize your chaos. He knows how to laugh, that smile of his when you're both having a great time. And he knows how to fight with you. Because you fight, damn it, sometimes he gets really annoying, sometimes you have to literally drag him to do something, sometimes he scolds you and you feel angry, and you end up punching each other. Who is he to tell you what to do? But, after the fury, you notice that this scolding has done you good. You even think that you would have loved to receive it from your father. Or your mother. 

And one day, you do something reckless. You need to know it. You need to listen it in his own words.

Although you know that he could shoot you at any moment, although you know his deadly aim, you approach while he points his gun at you, and you put your hand on his chest. In the chest of the dangerous boy, the lone wolf with melancholy eyes.

Then, with your back turned, because you don't dare to know the answer, you ask him:

And after a silence that seems eternal, he answers. And when you turn around, he's smiling. That smile of his.