Melancholy and Meaningless
She never told him this, but she kept the picture that he'd drawn. At times after he died, she'd pull it out of wherever she was hiding it and stare down at the portrait, and his voice would come drifting slowly into her head like cotton on the wind, slow and melancholy and meaningless. On days when she felt particularly masochistic for whatever reason, she would let herself cry a little and remember the way he looked at her. In her mind, his eyes shone brighter then they ever really had, and she wonders if that's natural.
When the tears began to leak out, she would always put it gently back where it had come from, and the words flowing through her head hauntingly would retreat back to where they had come from, gone like the precious person that had spoken them in the first place. As they slowly drift out, sometimes, she's filled with such a huge, gaping emptiness that she wonders why she took it out in the first place. Even so, however often she decides not to look at it again, once the ache settles deep down into the vacancies of her soul, she really can't help but pulling it out and waiting for the temporary bliss that it seemed to carry on every inch of the worn canvas.
Years later, she's packing her belongings to travel off to god knows where(god especially knows that despite her need of a home, she can't stay anywhere for very long anymore)when she finds it in the back of her closet, poking out between boxes stored there ages ago. Carefully, tenderly, like holding a newborn baby, she coaxes it out of it's beloved crevice and holds it gently in her hands for a moment, waiting for the voice to drift slowly into her mind, a gorgeous melody, erasing all her anxieties--
Sometime while she's waiting, she opens her eyes(she doesn't even recall closing them, or when her teeth flew to her bottom lip) and looks down at the painting, and that's when she realizes something. It's been years. She's forgotten what he sounded like. The melody is out of her reach. For a moment, she feels nothing, as she tries to recall. Shannon's voice flits through her mind for a few horrified milliseconds. Leo. Chris. Raquel. Seness. God, she thinks, her eyes already beginning to cloud over with inevitable tears that are somehow more than just water.
She picks up something on the ground, she doesn't even know what it is, and begins smashing the painting over and over with it, her vision blurred by tears she's not even aware of anymore. When she realizes it isn?t sharp, she claws at the thing with her bare hands, words streaming out of her mouth while she doesn't know she's talking, blood flowing out of her gentle fingers even though she hasn't even registered that she's in pain yet.
Her breathing, which was growing louder and louder, became still as her fingers clenched at the destroyed pieces now on the ground. She looks at her fingers and winces, now experiencing the pain she had been ignoring. She tenderly feels her cheeks, stroking the flesh that the tears had run cruelly down, and now it's not only tears running down her face, it's some of her own blood as well, and more tears escape, if only because she now realizes that she didn't even know what she was doing.
After a while(ten seconds? An hour? A day? A lifetime?)of sitting there, she slowly gets up, washes the blood off her hands, picks up the deprecated picture, and throws it's torn remains into the garbage. Pacifica Casull begins to pack again.
After two more minutes, she removes the tiny pieces and conceals them underneath her rug.
She might need them later.