I know I shouldn't have, especially when trying to juggle four stories at the same time but seriously, inspiration just came and slapped me in the face with a fish.
Prologue - Grey
Edgar Beauregard was considered to be a very peculiar young lady among the residents of sleepy little Forks, Washington. Of course, this was not without reason, because for all outward appearances, she was a bit different. Some might even say she was a little bit touched in the head, especially since the whole fiasco. Edgar had been weird before, but it was if the whole incident only made things take a turn for the worst regarding the young female. No one ever talked about it though, simply content to pretend to live in false ignorance and pretend it never happened in the first place, so if say –a newcomer were to come to town and approach a local resident to inquire about what exactly the whole affair was about, said resident would simply avert their gazes, shake their head pitiyingly, and mutter on about how it was a "truly heartbreaking scene" before subtly changing the subject with the ease of an expert who had done so numerous times before.
But back to the beginning; Edgar Beauregard really was quite…unique. The Beauregards were quite a respectable family, originating from Europe, having crossed over the ocean generations ago (if the rumours were to be believed) and made a big name for themselves on this side of the pond, and for unknown reasons, the father and wife had decided to make their home in the small Olympic town on the coast of Washington. Stories varied according to who you spoke to, so no one knew exactly why, but one day they had just shown up, bought that one really nice house by the woods that was too expensive for anyone to afford, and stayed.
Everyone agreed that they were genuinely nice people though, who were always willing to help out the community. Well, that is, until the whole debacle.
Edgar, however, was very different to her posh but generous parents.
She was a nice enough girl yes, but as stated numerous times before, she was…inimitable, to put it nicely. She spoke in a dreamy, soft voice, but was always blunt and sincere. Too sincere, most would say. She seemed to lack the basic human trait called 'tact', and tended to state things plainly, no matter the situation. She didn't do it out of malice, oh no, actually, in her own mind, she never realised that normal people weren't as straightforward as she was. It was a result of her secluded upbringing, she had no friends or family other than her father, who was always busy at work, and Forks residents didn't want their children interacting with such an unruly youth, so they discouraged any sort of friendship with her. Edgar didn't mind though. In fact, she didn't even realise anything was wrong.
She had snarled, knotted, out-of-control midnight black hair that reached down to her waist but sprang up in different directions and was forever mixed with leaves, twigs and paint, and no matter how much her mother had tried to tame it, it would never sit still. She was very pale as well, looking more like she had skin made of delicate porcelain than anything. She was of average height of a female her age –being seventeen-, standing at five-foot six, and she was fairly thin as well. But the one thing people always noticed as soon as the saw her, were her eyes. They were wide eyes, giving her a perpetually fascinated look, surrounded by long dark lashes that brushed against her cheekbones, and created a stark contrast against her extremely light shade of grey orbs. They looked colourless, most would say, as if they simply had no colour within them at all. In fact, most people thought she was blind, and her tendency to go minutes without blinking nor looking directly at a person when she spoke only seemed to affirm their assumptions.
Most people had quite a lot of things to say about her if asked, but they were wrong, as 'most' people who 'assume' tend to be, because Edgar had excellent eyesight. Her eyesight was so amazing in fact, that unlike most human beings, she had a fourth retina cone. Now, most people would ask what makes her so special if she has one more than normal, but that's entirely what made her different, since most people only had three, and the rare few with four, are able to discern colours that the average person can't even dream of seeing, for they'd have no idea what it even looks like.
Now, what did Edgar do with this special ability of hers?
Well, she made art of course.
And she was extremely passionate about it too, which was yet another reason as to why Forks residents didn't interact with her. She had a tendency to speak using art references -comparing things to colours and shapes and textures and famous paintings and statues and all things that would confuse even a well-educated middle-aged man. She was always dirty too, or at least according to the residents of the sleepy town, she was. Always covered in those colours of hers, they would say when she walked passed whilst shaking their heads. Paint on her face, chalk in her hair, hands covered in charcoal, pencils tucked behind her ears, not to mention all the supplies she always carried on hand, her tools normally occupying the pouches on her apron she always wore over her clothing (which, was also constantly covered in various arty substances), and the black worn bag at her side –filled with even more tools, notebooks, sketchpads, A4 size Canvas Pads, sand paper, pieces of materials she used for texture, beads…everything one could really need as an artist was in that bag of hers that she never failed to bring along with her in case inspiration hit.
And inspiration hit frequently and at the most inopportune moments too, much to the town's chagrin. She could be crossing the road, before suddenly stopping, reaching into her trusty bag and sketching out her surroundings, traffic be damned. Or she could be walking leisurely on the sidewalk before abruptly halting a fellow pedestrian and asking to do a quick drawing of them that they could of course keep (and what the town thought extremely funny, was that she always paid the people she requested to do drawings of, and not the other way around), and said pedestrian would be so frozen with shock that by the time they snapped out of it to give her their answer, she had already finished their unnervingly lifelike sketch and had handed it to them, money included, and was blissfully continuing on her road as if nothing had happened, leaving the very same pedestrian staring down at the admittedly stunning drawing in shock, wondering just how in the world she had managed to complete such an intricate and detailed drawing in just under five minutes.
And little did said pedestrian know; the small town of Forks had been asking themselves that same question for years.
Edgar, for her part, was totally oblivious to what the town thought of her, and lived blissfully in her own little world full of colours and light. She went about her days normally, sharp eyes taking in each and every sight she came across, details remaining embedded into her memory.
She didn't particularly care about anything else other than her art, so if someone wanted to have casual conversation with her about the economy, it would essentially be the same as talking to a brick wall. Her father, was a prime example of this case.
He was a business man through and through, always reading the Times Newspaper each morning, a cup of coffee in hand, only watched news reports on the television, always had his mobile with him at all times in case of a work emergency, dressed in expensive, personally tailored suits, and carried a briefcase full of important documents that Edgar never bothered to inspect herself.
Her father's name was Charles, and he was surprisingly young given his profession, only in his mid-thirties. He looked much like his daughter, a very handsome man who drew the gazes of women everywhere with light grey eyes, constantly messy raven locks (which could never be tamed, much to his disgruntlement) and a tall and lean stature. He was very mature though, and took no nonsense at work or anywhere else.
However, it seemed that Edgar was an exception to that rule. Not that she gave him any, it was just that she paid no heed to anything unless she found interest in it, much to his amusement. He loved his daughter very much, and was well aware of what the town as a whole thought of her, and though he didn't appreciate them for it, there really wasn't much he could do about it. He was just relieved that his daughter was oblivious to the rumours so she couldn't get hurt. He did everything to make his little girl happy…
…Even if it meant letting her paint the house whenever she wanted.
Often times he would come home and find her in the living room, furniture pushed aside (not that it made much of a difference, since it was covered in multi-coloured paint splotches anyway) standing on a ladder (and would his heart always stutter and choke with that sight) buckets of paints surrounding her and adding yet another design on their already impressive wall mural. Used to the sight as he was, he would only sigh in fond exasperation, before changing into old, paint speckled clothing (an obvious result of spending an extended amount of time with his daughter) and taking a seat on the couch and watching her with a close eye in case she accidentally fell off the ladder in her daze.
It wouldn't be the first time.
It was one thing that constantly worried him about her. She was very accident prone as a result of her one-mindedness. She wasn't clumsy, she saw everything that one, but the problem was, when she immersed herself in her art, she tended to forget her surroundings, so intent she was on her actions. Edgar had always been like that, ever since she was a child, and it was a constant headache source for Charles. One time he had even found her standing quite precariously on the edge of the roof of their two story home in her effort to get the perfect angle of the tree she was drawing (in the end, it did end up being an extremely beautiful drawing, he had to admit) and he almost had a stroke right then and there.
Of course, she had just given him a look of confusion when he had basically monkey jumped his way up in his haste to get her down, not understanding what the 'big deal' was.
And Charles could only let out a heavy sigh, feeling like he had aged ten years in just ten minutes.
Nonetheless, Charles did his absolute best to provide for his vagabond daughter, even if it meant spending thousands of dollars' worth of art supplies every month.
Though, it wasn't as if he couldn't afford it (he was a very accomplished business man after all, coming from a family of Old Money, so it was no problem to him), and even if he couldn't, it didn't go to waste. Edgar was extremely talented, producing extremely detailed and life-like pieces at every turn. She made herself money that way too (Although it was hard work to get her to accept to turning it into a business, considering the fact that all she wanted was the pleasure of doing it, no reward needed), with high ranking people buying her works or requesting specially made orders every week. She was constantly busy, working hard but happily on some piece or another, blissfully lost in her own world.
And really, that's all that mattered to Charles Beauregard.
That his daughter was constantly happy.
And God help the person who dared hurt her.