Chapter Text
There’s wind, blowing through her blonde hair as she stands, knee-deep in long grass. It sways just at her fingertips, ticking the pads of her hands as she sways with it. It’s like her and the grass are one, gently going from one way to another, back and forth.
The grass’ usual cool green fades to a darker olive, and a shadow casts over her back as the sun sets in front of her, hints of orange peaking out when she moves. The scene is serene, something out of a storybook, and nothing like really life. The crashing of waves fills her ears as she stands, watching the water waver back and forth as white foam springs from the sand at the edge of the beach.
She stands a little away, up on top of a hill breathing in the salty air. Her gaze is mostly focused on the light pinks and purples that dance in the clouds, and closer to the horizon they bleed into deep oranges and reds.
She brushes a strand of hair out of her face, and senses the disturbance of something. A presence of someone else, standing at the edge of the hills. Her foot pivots, griping to the sandy ground as she runs a hand up one of the wild grasses growing on the sand dune.
She turns around, her face melting into the warmest smile anyone’s ever seen, like she’s part of the sun. Golden dew drops press to the right side of her face now as she starts to laugh, the sides of her eyes crinkling with happiness.
Then her toned skin fades to a pale pale pale complexion. She looks sickly, her eyes closing and her mouth closing and folding to allow shallow breaths for her to be able to exhale. She’s no longer standing, but laying down, her hair splayed beneath her as she sleeps. Her arms are lain gently at her sides as if she’s…no.
Everything isn’t in bright, saturated colors anymore either. It’s all in black and white, the shadows of her face pop against the stark white of her skin and her hair. There are people all around her, but their faces are incomplete, blank to draw more attention to her. She is all that matters, she is the center of the universe.
Messy lines all draw together at the canopy above her bed, painting the picture of a still background that waits behind her. A room made of light little sketches that seem so very distant from the girl in the bed.
She’s injured. Like, really injured this time. If only there were color, then the infection would show. How sickly she looked; all of the red sucked out of her cheeks.
What if…what if she doesn’t make it?
It changes again. The girl isn’t laying down anymore, she’s not looking sickly, but instead she’s kneeling over something something something. He knows what it is, but he doesn’t focus on it. The true focus is instead on her face, her shaking hands, her mouth, moving in pleas that fall upon death ears.
Shiny tears trail down her face, snot dripping from her nose as she begs and begs until her voice is hoarse. She listens now, she listens to someone, her ears pricked at the weak words that float out of their mouth, sure to be the last.
Her hands are tainted red, shiny red that smells like iron. It’s not her blood, but it might as well be, by how much pain she’s feeling. Agony is written over her very being, every single movement looks like it’s tinged with hurt.
It’s only after a minute more when she collapses. Her hands hit the stony floor, her legs give out from under her and her forehead brushes against the floor. An invisible force is pushing at her from above, trying to flatten her to the floor for the rest of eternity as hoarse yells find their way out of her throat.
They’re gone, they’re all gone but she’s still here.
The picture changes again, this time she’s facing toward him, her face contorted with an uncontrollable rage. Her face is stained with red, but not the little fluttery kind that paints it so very often, no no. This red is anger of its truest form. The lines that are so hard and deep that he wonders if they’ll be there forever.
There’s a sort of sharpness to her eyes, like she’s trying to stab someone over and over and over again. Her words are like the knives, sharp and cut deep into the flesh. She’s not like this, not ever, but something something something has turned her into a dragon, the words rolling off her tongue like fire.
It’s been building up for a while now, and everyone knew it. She’s slow to anger, but he’s the one that set her off. Her friends and family had been tiptoeing around her, like they’re walking on eggshells. But it’s only him that seems to set her off.
She’s a firework now, spitting at him like he’s the scum of the earth, and that look in her eyes…he really hopes that it’ll fade with time.
But before his glassy tears can fall, the image becomes something else entirely. Her face isn’t toward him now, her back straight-on, cape whipping behind her like some sort of superhero. Light, not a natural one, illuminates her face, her mouth is open, in something of a shout or a scream. It isn’t one of fear, or of anger, or of grief, but of righteousness.
She’s jumping, flying really, in the air, her arms stretched behind her like the wings of a bird, back arched in the beginning of an explosion. It’s seconds before the bomb can go off, and every single bone in her body shows off her pride.
She’s not afraid, not anymore. Her fear has evaporated, replaced with triumph and pure determination. She knows what’s at stake, what she’ll lose this time. But she also has come to terms with it, she knows that in the end it’s worth it, if she can just stop them.
If only there were another page to turn.
-
He’s slumped over a desk, slaving over another drawing that he’s been churning out for the past days, weeks, months, even years now. They all know not to stop him when he gets like this, not when he thinks of her.
All around his room, papers are scattered everywhere, strewn on the floors, messily taped to walls, and even neatly placed on his bed. They’re in sketchbooks, and loose-leaf papers, in pencil and water color and paint. They’re just little sketches, messily painted lines, to fully done pieces, worth millions if he wanted to sell.
But all of them, every single one, is of her.
Of her face, her eyes, her everything. Sometimes she’s crying, or dancing, or laughing, or yelling. Sometimes she’s by herself or with other people. All he does is draw her.
But the drawing that Keefe Sencen is leaning over now, is not made of pencil or pen or anything else, it is not of her smiling or yelling or alone or with others.
The piece of paper in front of him is blank, completely blank. He’s been staring at it for a while now, his eyes glazed over as he just watches.
He can’t bring himself to do anything to it, to make her exist like she’d never left, to pretend that she was right next to him, still leaning on him for support. He can’t do this anymore.
Because Sophie Foster is gone, and she’s left Keefe behind to deal with it.