Author's Note: Just some Sean/Ellie drabble. I've always thought they belong together. Please review.
I think of Sean sometimes. When I'm stressed out trying to meet a deadline. When I'm out drinking absinthe with the artists. When I'm staring at myself in the mirror above Jesse's bed as he kisses my skin.
The curtains are drawn, and wisps of twilight sneek in through the cracks, shedding sporadic light about the room, while everything else remains still, unmoving. I squint at my white complexion, red hair ablaze framing my face like fire, my figure silhouetted against the dark shadow of the bed sheets.
I think of the differences between them, like a northern and southern wind, they cross, but never match.
Jesse would write a story about me. He would use his words like paint to put roses in my hair, sprinkle them like raindrops over the soil of the empty winter crops. He'd paint my eyes purple instead of blue. He'd leave out the brown under my nails. He'd leave out the freckle above my right rib. But he would keep one single scar on my wrist, that remaining puncture of my past life that I never looked at enough for it to heal entirely. He never sees it as the mark where a mother destroyed her daughter, forced her to harm.
The scar on my wrist is that of a frightened, childish Ellie, who needed years to build up the courage to escape the world
His story would become art. A way to idealize me, to help me recover, and become something that I am not. Nor will I ever be.
My eyes suddenly burned from the dazed stare. I went into a still panic; if I blink, tears would brim over and trickle down my face. I didn't cry anymore. Yet eventually, and instinctively, my eyes would shut. I didn't want them to. I feared the images behind my eyelids.
I think of Sean again. His despair and longing. I see Ellie in the mirror for a moment. Not searching for an escape, but seeking a lost friend.
Sean would literally paint my reflection, and the flowers in my hair would've been forget-me-nots instead of daisies. He would keep the freckle above my rib. If it were Sean, I would have the dirt on my nails, the cuts on my wrists and the broken skin, still raw on my hip from where I'd relapsed.
If it were Sean, he wouldn't have dressed me up and titled me Ariadne or Leda or Ganymede. I would be Ellie. But if it were Sean, I wouldn't be numbly gazing at the mirror above the bed.