She put pencil to paper, outlining all the scenes she had never been a part of, would never be a part of. And as she sketched a familiar trio, she had to stop herself from turning red hair blonde, because it would be so easy. So, so easy to make herself real, to make herself more than just the colorless girl who lingered behind colorless drapes in a colorless room where the only things that were real were the scraps of paper on the walls.
It would be so easy. So easy it almost hurt. Almost, but not quite.
She was a criminal in the worst sense. Behind the pastel ghost of a girl was a thief, stealing the most precious of treasures and twisting them into cruel perversions that were so real it was perfectly tragic. So real it was perfectly believable. Perfectly perfect.
But now, she would make it right, or as right as tampered memories could be. The blonde intruder would slip slowly, effortlessly away from this technicolor reality and back into her colorless non-existence, replaced by a smiling red head who was free to make memories rather than cheap crayon imitations.