Glass.

Naminé sometimes scares herself with what she can reveal in her art.

Sometimes, Naminé sketched the strangest things. Once, it was a bullfight on the streets of Twilight Town, complete with matadors in ill-fitting black vests and using red tablecloths in the somewhat impromptu game. Another time she drew a nest of mechanical birds, with a wire mother feeding one bolts. She could almost hear the cry of scraped iron with that one.

One she often drew was everybody around her, anyone and everyone, in various forms. Marluxia was often a vine, thick thorns spurting from his limbs with viciousness. Larxene was difficult, but often ended up looking almost like an angel of the devil in shock-sharp lightning. Demyx was, of course, water, although after Zexion was gone Naminé sometimes found herself drawing him as ice encasing cold, still water. Frozen. Sora sometimes became the fanciest Keyblade she could conceive at the time, and although this often differed depending on what place he was at - she favoured Agrabah, herself, and avoided drawing a Sora-Tron Keyblade.

People like Selphie were easy and difficult at the same time, Naminé thought. She came to life so quickly and fluidly as a sunlit beach under Naminé's skilled pen, and yet she felt this was somehow superficial. Like, because she'd only ever met the memory, the mere ghost of the girl, it couldn't be real, it was only a loose first impression.

It made people like Leon even harder, because Naminé was also very skilled at imagining what could be said to her in certain situations. "...Landscapes don't suit all people," her imagined Leon would say over her shoulder as she worked, making her bite her lip and try to adjust the stormy sky to suit the grey-eyed man. It was perhaps that she was her own harshest critic, however, never accepting that she could know someone so well as to create an image to personify them wholly.

Sometimes, some of the Organisation (and even her own imagined friendly visitors) would flip through these portraits, commenting on each one, often in much the same manner as Leon, although generally harsher. Larxene could be the worst, pretending she didn't even know who was embodied in what picture although Naminé knew damn well the woman knew.

And then there were some other pictures, ones that she would never show anyone. She never looked upon them herself once they were done, either. They were indelibly etched in her memory, because if you can't remember yourself, then who can you be trusted to remember? And Naminé, as a memory witch, had had to learn that lesson fully. But the glass dolls, full of cracks if not lying in fragments on whatever cold marble floor they had been smashed on, held her own face, and she found that too much, too nightmarish, to bear.


Sorta pretty, I think. Sorta sad too. Poor Naminé. Very quick, to celebrate a one-night return to the internet. Tomorrow is Summer Sonic, the second coolest concert of the year. The first of course is the Decaydance Festival I am so going to and whoring myself out at. Pretty much every one of the band members are gods, in my opinion.

Tally loves you.