Philosophy of Life

By: I'm just a person now read 66

Prologue – consciousness

Extract from the notes of Edward Elric, 1909, Central Orphanage:

If I could live forever, it would be useless. I have heard that someone has made a person live forever a millenium ago. It was stupid, for nobody could live longer than they should. And even if you could live forever, it would be aggravating, for someone so unaging like that would always see people dying before his midst. However, if I were to live forever, I would most likely kill mysef; for why must we continue on living if we do not know what the reason to live is?

Roy

January 17, 1911; 5:15 pm

Central City of Amestris is one of the cities their people are proud of. With streets that glimmer in the nighttime atmosphere, with people that walk through the days and the nights in orderly fashion, with the Fuhrer standing high and mighty above all of Amestris, and with the military keeping close watch of everyone's safety, for their family might be there, or maybe loved ones at that. Everyone has lived and died in that city, most of smiling faces, some of not, for perhaps they have not found the greatest mystery that shrouded life: its reason.

I have however seen people dying with a frowning face. One of the example is my teacher, Sir Hawkeye, whose face had told me to find the great reason. Another example is of my mother, whose face was saddened that she had not realized what the reason was until at her deathbed. She had not told me as her dying strength had made her leave life, and so had my father, with his unreadable mask that I have known since birth and consciousness. And so, cursed with the same fate, to ever realize what life would mean on the death bed, I stand before the orphanage door and its gloomy atmosphere, gold badge shining.

I am a military officer. A colonel, if I may say so. And for the time being, I have been sent here to retrieve a child from its unknown heritage.

Knocking on the door, the rain poured out, trickled from the marble pillars of the cemented porch. A black umbrella had my firm grip as the woman opened. The Caretaker.

"Good morning, I am Roy Mustang from the military and I have come to retrieve a child by the name of Edward Elric."

Riza

January 17, 1911; 5:23 pm

There were different people in the world. I have learned that the hardest way possible. There were people like my father, there were people like the reporters, there were people like the thieves and criminals in prison, and there were people like me. Those who posed to keep the pokered-face mask as their only chance of surviving this unlikely world.

And there were most likely different purposes of living. One would be when you do not know how to live, another would be because you want to live. But the most aggravating thought would be: because you want to know why you live. And that was the great mystery that shrouded the people whose eyes have opened. The people, also like me.

At such a young age, I have seen my father die, his face was of realization. And as he spared one last tear as he looked at me, he frowned. That was when I knew he had realized life. I have not seen that many people die before, so I had thought that it was normal for someone who had lived to frown at their family once on the death bed. But as time raged on, I have figured out the reason for why he so shamelessly shed the tear he normally does not.

And as I stood in front of the bricked building, the darkest umbrella that I owned in my hand, I gazed up. The Military. Suppose I join there? Suppose I live, see people die, and join there? No. I must not think of that, for weren't my father joined the military, hunted down, and now, must I join in my father's name? I would surely be in trouble, shamed by my father, wherever he was right now.

The rain poured down like it had the past three days. The sidewalk was wet, the different cars passed made a few splash on my same colored dress. The book manuscript that they had me edit was not nearly as wet as its outer covering was.

Looking everywhere, I saw the orphanage. The same orphanage I'd been brought up, lived through childhood, released when I was eighteen, and hadn't been visiting since...well, since a few years ago. The orphanage that so much people abhors, for they know that the children there had either been abandoned or, for the sake, had their parents die of war or illness or of age. Or of life, itself.

I passed through its small territory. The lights were on. They were having a guest, I presume. I looked through the window a bit. A man and the old caretaker, Hannah. Adoption papers were everytwhere, and the man's badge glittered under the light. A military folk. But continuing my way and minding my own business, I walked away under the small veil of the pouring rain, wondering: that kid must be lucky.

Edward

January 17, 1911; 5:25 pm

The woman in black and blonde left shortly after peeking at the living room, where my supposed adopter was. Her face looked like one of those in the photographs Lilianne takes a picture. About ten years ago...when she looked seventeen. The rain trickled down painfully on the roof, down the gutters, and on the walls of the house, as well as the windows. The automail stiffened. I sighed sullenly.

The children think I'm lucky. Lucky enough to be only here for a couple of years before getting adopted again. They sulked all day, giving me glares. Those who did not know me gave me happy looks, and those who did, just looked away the moment their eyes reached even a tuft of my hair.

I do not want to go. Not more than they do. For all I care, this was the bastard's fault. The bastard that left mother and I in our greatest despair of her death. He, however, did not come for even her funeral. And after a month of grieving, we'd received word that he's died in some mountain up in Briggs. Tons of sympathies were exchange, and I had been shipped off to this sad, uncharacteristic house with tons of children running about in sheer sadness.

Of course people gave me weird looks on my arm and leg, both of which are metal and automailed. The caretaker/s didn't give any motion towards the limbs, quite resisting the urge to ask. They'd taken care of the prosthetics every week, when it rains, when it glows, and now, they would break the ice with me when I'm shipped off of their care, to a man in the military. A man that I do not solely know of.

But I however do not have the power to deny the adoption and should very much oblige to what is going to happen. For two years I'd been living here, I have been taught that as much as anything, I should obey to those who adopt me, which sounded very much illogical and nonsensical. What if abusive rights come to those who adopt? What if they just leave you to rot? I have not seen many people die, just my mother, but I do not wish to die before knowing what reason life is, as my eyes have been opened from when everyone left, from when I'd been stuck here. And I most likely hope that that adopter would have that same consciousness to death and life as I have. After all, it is the first observation of alchemy, a subject I have been inclined to study for months after my tenth birthday occurred.

"Edward," came the stiff sound of the caretaker, Lilianne. Scribbling a little note on the parchment she'd bought me earlier, I stood up, opened the door, and let her usher me down stairs. For the time being, I didn't quite notice the man in black. Black Xingese eyes, black ravenous hair, and an intensive dark poker-faced gaze that seemed to cut through stones and the sort. But it would've been understandable for the unconscious people if they noticed the little twitches and taps and nervous glances the man made. And he kept boring holes to me. He was conscious, his eyes said. He had seen the pleasures and sadness of death itself, nothing I'd not seen. He had seen many, if not, a few, most likely.

"Edward," Lilianne said again. "This man is Roy Mustang, the adopter, from the military. I hope you treat this kid nice, Mr. Mustang." Lilanne narrowed her eyes at the darker, more respective man. He nodded slightly, his breath giving an emotionless and stoic 'Yes, ma'am,'. The caretaker hesitated for a moment, debating whether or not he was as good as his records say, but sooner gave me to him.

He nodded again. A few pleasantries, and another curt nod, later, we'd left the building. His own car he'd parked a few meters away from the property stood, which he unlocked, motioned me inside and silently started the engine.

The different houses we'd sped past looked blurry in addition to the rain that seemd to stick to the windows of the new old car. Trees made dark outlines, houses lighter, and people who carried umbrellas, or suitcases as substitutes, ran or walked through the pavements to their houses. The sky was dark, as it had been that past three days, and so, we had finally stopped in front of the cemented-brick building. Its atmosphere no better than the orphanage, slightly more grand and sophisticated.

So there it was, the place where I'd find my new home to be every single day.

But as I was frowning at the dark place which the man whom I recall is Mustang led me in, I wondered...who the next lucky child would be to have their eyes opened to consciousness.

A/N: So that's a wrap! Enjoyed? I hope so. But this is a prologue and as all prologues go, it is the start of a story! So I hope that you find this good, leave a comment and maybe follow of fave. No one's stoping you.

And maybe for the next chapter, you'd help me.

Yours truly,

Chira Somes. :)