[b][i]Ghosts of the Past[/i][/b] [i]"Out of the night comes a song that I know Twisted and ruined and black I can remember the people they were Nobody knows if they ever come back Lost in the ashes of time they still sing Echoes of romance gone bad I can remember them better than you I shared the nightmares they had Dead and gone" -Motörhead[/i] [b]Seven Years Prior, Earth, Alternate Dimension[/b] [i]The casket was lowered into the ground slowly, an American flag draped atop it, customary for a soldier. The cemetery was small, a little one a ways away from any town, surrounded by a grove of trees. In the cold winter air, all except the pines bore no leaves, and snow covered the ground in a light dusting. The sky was a bleak grey, snow blowing gently in the icy breeze. The group of fifty-some odd people stood watching, some women crying, some men tearing up, some people's faces contorted into expressions of sorrow. And yet, the fifteen-year-old Jackson Wolfe stood silently, expressionless, as his father was lowered into the ground, where soon he'd be no more than worm food. A grim thought, but even that elicited no tears or sadness from the boy. Shock had yet to subside, it had only been two days before that he had witnessed his father shot down before his very eyes. For two days, he had been holed up in his room, silent, without words, tears, sometimes even thought. It didn't feel real to him, as if it were all a dream, something that he would awake from in a sweat, but the awakening never came. This was real. The winter's wind blowing his hair and nipping at his cheeks and ears was real. He was standing in his black suit, matching black cowboy boots, watching the conclusion of the funeral. The people who had consoled him were real, they had hugged him, telling him some useless piece of advice about moving on. And so, as the casket reached the bottom of the hole, the adults moved off, talking to one another, speaking to his mother, who's make-up ran down her face as she cried silently. Jackson stood back, silently, and only once everyone had moved back, did he go to the grave, and look down. The flag looked back it him, almost a mockery of his father. The same people he defended ended up killing him. They used him. After a moment of silent thought, he too walked away, leaving the grave to be filled in later that day. The adults had all begun to return to their cars, there was to be a dinner that night that he'd be forced to attend. Oh joy. Catching up with the group, he shuffled into his mother's car, and soon the group was headed to his grandmother's house. The ride was silent, solemn. Neither mother nor son spoke to each other, her focusing on the road, him gazing out at the forests and clearings, bare, and glazed with snow... [/i] [b]Outside of The Dojo, Tatakai [/b] [i]Wolfe snapped out of his daydream, blinking rapidly a few times. Sitting atop the hill, he looked out over the Dojo below, and the surrounding clearings, hills, and forests. He came out to be alone and think often. He preferred the calm and silence, it was peaceful. The memories, though, he could live without, but there was no erasing what was. No matter what he willed, he couldn't change the past. And so he lived with it, a constant struggle. Some days, he felt alright, others, it hit much harder, and he avoided people. It was hard to throw one's burdens on others, and it was something Jackson refused to do. If questioned about his behavior, his mood, his tendency to be alone, he dodged it, there was no reason to push. He was coping, it just took time. Maybe one day, the pain would be like the people: dead and gone.[/i] [spoiler]Open. Also, feel free to critique.[/spoiler]