The creak of wind upon rusted metal welcomes you as you enter the junkyard. Instantly, the repulsive stench of rotting waste fills your lungs as you inhale the dank air, but you have grown used to it by now. Every moment possible, your trainer comes to this place of decay, seemingly angry that everything here was rotting in the ground, as she had for so long desired to do. No matter how immortal she was, your trainer couldn’t bring herself to commit suicide; she was too frightened.
You trail her into the dump, watching innocently as she takes her usual position atop a rusted out old Mustang. A distracting chatter catches her attention, and she looks in the direction of the noise, smiling when she observes an angelic Pachirisu hopping among the trash bins. That wicked smile still occupying her face, she turns in your direction, nodding toward the pokemon. "Bulbasaur, would you?” A weight seemingly falls into the pit of your stomach as you realize what she is asking of you. Your eyes squeezed tightly, you approach the fellow pokemon, which gazes at you with the innocence of a child. Its glossed eyes pass over your body and it chatters enticingly at you, probably wanting to play. “I am thinking something along the lines of stun spore, followed by vine whip,” your trainer says, a hint of laughter leaking into her words.
You have no choice after all, you are her pokemon, and must do as she says, no matter how vindictive she may be. Shaking the bulb atop your back, you issue forth the least amount of stunning powder possible, hoping that it will only daze the squirrel pokemon and give it enough time to escape. The yellow spores float slowly over to the unmoving Pachirisu, and soon surround its body, causing it to fall to the ground and wriggle shamefully. You stand, watching it in pity, trying to hold off on the vine whip until it can get away. “What are you waiting for, use vine whip NOW!” she screams, probably keen to what you are up to. Having no other choice, two dark green vines rocket from your body, striking the defenseless pokemon. Almost as though they had their own plans in mind, the vines closed around its body, giving it the look of one wearing an outfit of leaves. The Pachirisu lifts into the air, and you hold it there, waiting for a follow-up command, hoping secretly that there will be none. “Now squeeze the life out of it!”
Another burst of salty tears emits from your eyes as you begin to squeeze the pokemon, feeling its quick heartbeat slow to a dull thump. Small streams of blood begin to pour through every opening in its body. “Keep going,” your trainer whispers, her attention solely kept on the dying Pachirisu. You give one last, painful thrust with your vines and send the pokemon plummeting to the ground, where it lands within a pool of its own blood, splattering it in small trickles upon the surrounding earth. You have won. As much as it pains you, you realize that you have intentionally killed another pokemon. Your trainer speaks, though it is unheard for various screaming emotions whisk themselves about in your head, creating a vortex that hinders all other words from entering. You hear her scream now, angry flooding her voice, though you do not turn to look at her. You hear footsteps now, crunching atop the gravel until they are right behind you and that’s when you feel it. Her foot collides with your backside, knocking you forward. Your face, already scarred, crushes into the sharp rocks, and they dig into your face, causing a flow of blood to emerge from your nose, similar to what you had done to the Pachirisu. Your breathing increases, as your struggle not to cry out, that would only make her more angry. She speaks again, this time slow and calm, “Get up, I think we should do it now.” You know what she is hinting at when she says these words, though you thought she would never live up to them. No, you think, she won’t do it this time, she has always chickened out when it comes to this, it will be the same as always
. But as you think these words, you get the feeling that she may actually go through with it. It may have been the unfamiliar look in her eyes on the train tracks, or the sound of her voice when she ordered you to kill the Pachirisu, which it was, you do not know. What you do know is that this time will not be the same as the others, no matter what you told yourself, she might actually go through with this.
She crosses the junkyard, expecting you to follow in her wake, and you do. You gaze around in helpless despair, looking for anything that might help you stop her from doing this. But nothing among this junk, not the used toilet seats, nor the crushed soda cans could aid you now. Without giving notice, she drops to her knees, causing an eruption of fresh mud to fly around her. Your trainer then raises her hands in the air, and places them on her oily strands of hair, pulling them back into a bun and letting it fall onto her shoulder. “Okay Bulbasaur,” she breathes heavily. Although she is staring in your direction, you sense that she is not truly looking at you. You know what she is about to say, and are wishing silently that she will change her mind.
“Use Solarbeam now!” she cries, the words hitting you like a barrage of stones.
The bulb atop your back glows a faint orange, and seems to be acting on its own.
Tears have appeared at the corners of your trainer’s eyes, something you have never seen before.
The bulb is struggling now to gain enough sunlight, unable to pierce the thick marshmallow clouds occupying the sky.
A moan escapes her mouth; it reminds you of a Taurus’s grunt, though you cannot help but feel sorry for her.
A shift in the structure of clouds brings a beam of pure sunlight skyrocketing down upon you, supplying the last bit of energy needed to power up the attack.
“Do it now,” she sobs, drool hanging from her lips. Although she has never been as repulsive as she currently is, you can’t help but feel connected with her in a way you have never been.
The bulb is flashing now with deep shades of orange and yellow, threatening to burst at any given moment.
“I said do it now!” your trainer shrieks, her eyes are centered upon the ground beneath her. Teardrops splash in puddles under her, making you feel so very sorry for her.
You cannot hold the solarbeam back much longer, but you cannot bring yourself to kill the trainer that has raised you from an egg either. Your mind’s eye triggers a memory of your trainer clutching your newborn form, squealing with happiness as she twirls in a puffy pink skirt. What happened to that little girl you had once known and loved? She was killed
, you think, killed by the troubles of teenage life. She was buried beneath hardship and sorrow, despair and depression caused by the ones around her. But you had always been there for her, whether she wanted you there are not. You still love her, you can never stop loving her, for she is your trainer.
You realize with guilt that if you really loved her, you would do this deed for her. This act, though some may disagree, would put all her troubles behind her and help her reach a place of serenity.
Before you realize what you are doing, you unleash a blast of pure energy straight into your trainer, knocking her backwards. One last indistinguishable word emerges from her mouth in the form of an animal-like moan. Your trainer flips end over end before coming to a complete and silent stop about ten yards from where she had just been kneeling. You cross over to her unmoving body, not allowing your mind to wander to any conclusion, for you knew that it would end in guilt. She lies facedown, her hair strewn across her back and her arm bent at a funny angle.
Her chest does not heave in a familiar way that indicates that she is still living, but just sits like a deflated balloon. You know that she is dead, there is no denying that fact.
You now turn to leave, but as you do, you see a wrinkled object protruding from her jean pocket. You lean down and pluck it from her pants using your teeth.
A tear silently tumbles down your cheek as you gaze down at the yellowing photograph. Here in your hands is a picture taken long ago, displaying a younger version of your trainer. Her customary ruffled pink dress accenuates her bright pink cheeks as she grasps a speckled green egg, holding it close to her chest. Her smile portrays that of an unworried, carefree life to which she had been ripped from long ago.
You leave the junkyard, lonely and afraid. As you pass through the rusted gates, the sun peaks from behind a large gray storm cloud, casting its light onto the lives below it, hopefully causing a deep and everlasting joy.