Ficlets is, by definition of Wikipedia the Free Encyclopedia, very short stories between 64- and 1,024-bytes in length. So, yeah. This are to all of those who wonders. And Magenta's background are the same throughout this ficlets collection- her father was the one who have powers, but he's dead. Her mother is always drunk and mentally-abuse Magenta by telling her millions type of reasons of why people hate her, how she isn't worth it. And it has always affect her, even though she tried to not let it show. Obviously I think there is supposed to be a reason why Magenta is the way she is, right? So, on with the next one!
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their rightful owner(s)
She has always been the girl who doesn't think twice of covering her words, and maybe it's the way she looks at people (if looks could kill, she'd be a serial killer) that he doesn't favour her too much. She has always been closer to Layla rather than him, so it doesn't really matter. But still, the mere presence of her being there in the same room as him has always bother him. He thinks she hates him, which he shouldn't be finding it as a surprise, considering Magenta practically loathe most living creatures- but he does. He does feel surprise, and he feels as though he had done something wrong.
And he hates feeling guilty.
And by the end of the day, Magenta is a friend- and that makes everything much worse. Because he hates feeling guilty towards a friend. And he tries all sort of ways to be friends with her, like really friends with her. Saying 'hi' whenever he sees her, or asking 'how are you?' and such, but it all fails. She has this monotone voice that cuts you through your core, and makes you want to crawl in the corner and cries. Which is a bad thing. (Honestly, she might as well pull him inside out, or rip him in half better than to let him be haunted by her words all day long!)
It's half-way through sophomore year when things are going down hill with Layla, and everything he sees or thinks feel wrong. He doesn't know where he is flying and where he's walking right now, but he doesn't give a damn. When he decides to sit on a bench at a quiet street, he doesn't listen to the sound of her boots against the pavement when it walks up to him. "Stripes," that's what she calls him- stripes, for the white and red in his every blue shirt. "What're you doing here?"
He looks up, mind fuzzy and eyes blurry. He squints, "Mag-Magenta?"
She doesn't say anything, just keep coming until she's a few feet away. "Somethin' wrong, blue?" That's another nickname. Blue.
He shakes his head, "No. No, nothing's wrong," his words are slow.
She tilts her head to one side, and bluntly replies, "Liar."
He's quiet, eyes cast downwards. It feels like hours pass and the night becomes colder. She's just standing there, with that bored look on her face staring straight at him, and him, eyes on the floor as he tries to keep his emotion and the shivering in check. He's super strong, alright- but not cold-proof. He purses his lips and tries to sit straighter. She sighs. "It's Layla, isn't it?" she says, her words comes out shooting at him, and he feels as if he's being stab at.
He doesn't say anything, just sits there with the coldness sipping his bone.
She lets out another sigh, ruffling her messy hair. "C'mon, let's get you coffee- before you die or something."
He doesn't like the way she says it, like she's ordering him around and expects him to follow, but he doesn't argue. She takes his hands, her thumb brushes over his knuckles and something stings inside. He comes to look at her, but her expression shows nothing. She stuffs his left hand into her coat's pocket and lead the way. With her boots stomping the pavement of a quiet street that night, he hears she mutter, "The cafe's just around the corner- jus' hold on," and he finds himself relaxes in her touch.
Maybe, a nice cup of coffee and someone to talk to, is just what he needs after all.
(he spontaneously squeezes her hand and let himself smile, if only a little bit)