The Child of Seras - by MindAsylum - Anime - http://www.hellsingfanfic.net/hellsingfanfic/The_Child

The Child of Seras

Chapter XVIII

March 12

Walter handed me a bit of a care package today: a set of contact lenses that match the color of my left eye, and some sort of make-up to cover my scars. He said it would help me blend in a little more when I’m out on the field. He told me that back when he was doing field work, he sometimes had to go undercover, and after a while he became something of an expert when it came to disguises. I wasn’t sure if he’d thought of this himself or if Integra had asked him to do it, and I didn’t know how to ask without sounding ungrateful or offended, so I let it be.

I had some free time tonight, so I decided to try them on. It wasn’t until I looked in the mirror, at my old face, my old self, that I asked, “How did this happen?”

Less than a year ago, I was illegal immigrant who played the guitar with his friends in exchange for a cot to sleep on and a meal plan of burgers and milkshakes. Before that, I was a homeless teenager, eating out of trash cans, sleepwalking through life until one friendly Brit decided to give me a chance.

I guess when I think about it, my life’s been a long serious of freak chances; some good, some bad. I barely survived that car crash that killed my sister and father, but found myself a ward of the state at St. Francis’ Catholic School. After I ran away when I was fifteen, I’d have probably ended up on the streets a lot longer if I hadn’t run into Frank, who just happened to be visiting relatives in the states.

He was playing his acoustic guitar on the stoop of his uncle’s house, his eyes half closed, like he was asleep. Ceil used to play one just like it. It was old and in horrible shape, but somehow she made it sound brand new. She’d play when she’d take me to the park or the beach, and when she sang it was almost a whisper, like a secret told only to me. After she died, I couldn’t listen any more. Every time I heard music, no matter what the genre or the instrument, I’d get as far away as I could, cover my ears, and wait for it to stop. Even the choir in Catholic School made me uneasy, and I often got the strap for trying to cut that class. Looking back, I think that’s why I ran away. The teachers were strict, but not cruel. The other kids avoided me, but no one ever bullied me. The schoolwork was dogmatic, but not fire and brimstone. I just couldn’t get up every morning, hear the choir practice, and think of how much better it would sound if Ceil were singing it.

But the way Frank played, it was so humble, so unassuming, so close in spirit to the music that defined who she was, that for just a minute, I could pretend that she was somehow still playing, still singing to me; I just wasn’t listening hard enough.

Frank caught me staring and asked if I wanted to give it a try. I was too surprised to do anything but stare at him, but he kept looking right back at me, expectantly, as if we knew each other and did this all the time. I did what I normally did back then, stuttered out a few barely audible apologies and turned to leave, but he caught my sleeve and said in the most friendly voice possible: “When you’ve killed me dad, fucked me mum, and stolen me wallet, then you can say you’re sorry. But for now, I’ll settle for a yes or a no.” I was actually scared of him that point. I was a thin, scrawny fifteen-year-old street kid in front of an almost-twenty guy with about a dozen piercings and biceps the size of honeydew melons. I didn’t live the way I did without knowing what kinds of people to avoid, but Frank just confused me. He was barely holding on to my sleeve so that if I wanted to get away, I could. His dyed red hair and piercings gave him a distinctly punkish look, but he was playing an acoustic guitar. He didn’t even know me, but he was already assuming I knew how to play. He was quite possibly the weirdest guy I’d ever met, and from someone who lived on the streets, that means a lot.

“El speako le English, cotton top?” he’d said with an accent so incredibly fake I would have laughed if I wasn’t so nervous.

“I don’t know anything about music…” I’d said back, looking down. Frank gave me an incredulous look, as if to say “do you think I’m stupid?”

“Can’t lie too well, can you?” he’d said slyly, letting go of my sleeve, “Be thankful for that. Get too good at it and you’ll end up pulling the wool over your own eyes.”

I don’t think I could have left him even if I wanted to at that point. It wasn’t just that he saw right through me. Something about his words made him impossible to walk away from, like he was telling me a story piece by piece, and I wanted to know the end of it.

“See, I can tell you know a little, because of where your eyes go when you watch someone play. Most people look at the eyes first, like they’re trying to see where the music’s comin’ from. Sooner or later, they start looking down to the fingers, and try to see how it’s being made. But you didn’t look at neither. You just listened, and let it take you wherever it wanted to. That’s the point, and just by looking at you, I can tell you get it. Even if you’ve never played a note in your life, that alone makes you closer to Beethoven than your half the music majors in Oxford. So, I’m going to ask you one more time, cotton top, do you want to give it a try?”

I nodded shyly, and he hung his guitar over my shoulders like my sister had done so many times before when used to give me lessons, and said: “My plane leave in two weeks. Come back here in one, and we’ll see what you can do.”

When he closed the door, and I felt that guitar in my hands, I felt as if I was being reborn. I’d never known what it was like to live with a purpose, to have anything to work towards or hope for, and a complete stranger from another country had seen fit to give me both. Maybe it was charity, maybe it was curiosity, but after a while I wasn’t worried which it was. For the first time, I knew who I was: a musician. Nothing more, nothing less.

After almost an hour of staring into the mirror, I wipe off the make-up and take out the lens. What I used to be is gone, replaced by what I am now: a vampire, a scarred, maimed, inhuman monster made to give children nightmares, whose only saving grace is his decision not to act the part and stand against those who do. A soldier, fighting a war as old as the land I stand on. It’s true that I’ve lost a lot of things to get here: my friends, my family, my arm, even—in some ways at least—my humanity. But I’ve gained a greater purpose than I ever imagined possible. I write this now not to lament for the loss of those good old times, but as a way of saying goodbye to them, of laying them to rest. I can’t forget where I came from or how I got to be where I am, but I have to accept that I can never be the fearful drifter or the modest musician again. My duty demands that I be something more. The jury’s still out on whether or not I’m prepared for it, but no matter what devils stand in my way, within or without, I will never turn away from the path I’ve chosen.

Even if the undead are an enemy that can never be destroyed completely, it can still bleed, and as long as I’m standing, I’ll make sure it never stops.

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