Violet carefully brushed her long, raven hair away from her face as she sat at her seat, looking down at the meal she had prepared - if one could even call it that. The small black tray contained a small pile of mushy green beans, dried out mashed potatoes, and a slice of meat that would be lucky to even be called such. It was a disgusting looking display of a meal, one that a dog would most likely sniff over - but it was definitely better than the meals she would receive when she had to stay in the hospital a few months prior. And for that, she was incredibly thankful.
But, still, as she took a small spoonful of potatoes and meat, Violet couldn’t help but to imagine it was her mother’s homemade meatloaf that she used to make. She pretended the mush in her mouth was the deliciousness that was her mom’s cooking - the perfect texture, perfect sauce, and the overall perfect taste. She used to take such meals for granted, but ever since her return home after her incident, Violet wanted to eat absolutely nothing else but her mother’s home cooked meals. She wanted her freshly made pot pies, her grilled steak, her delicious pasta. Everything and anything her mother would make, Violet wanted a simple taste of.
And, for some time after her hospital release, that was all Violet had. Her mother would make whatever it was her daughter wanted in order to get her spirits up, to see her smile and laugh and be joyful.
A few months later, that’s exactly what it did. It made Helen Parr’s little girl smile.
With that small bit of progress in her daughter’s demeanor, the family, as well as the NSA approved therapist, assisted Violet in becoming independent once again - Which, of course, included making her own meals.
And, for the time being, those meals were the microwave kind.
Taking another small bite of her dinner, Violet exchanged her fork for her pencil, her dainty hand placing itself upon her sketchpad. She was determined to get her drawing done by that night to surprise her family upon their return; a small “thank you” for all they had done for her since she was returned home. After all, if it wasn’t for them, she would have been nothing but the shell of a girl they had found a year ago. Scared, emotionless, and forever silent.
Of course, however, with Violet’s luck, just as she began to move her pencil upon the paper, a loud knock came from the front door.
Violet’s motions halted completely as her brows raised, breath hitching in her chest. It wasn’t her family arriving early - they had a key to come into the house. So, who could be knocking on the Parr family home at this hour? She tried to keep calm as she mulled it over, knowing full well that she wasn’t allowed to answer the door when her family members weren’t home.
Trying to ignore it, Vi went to continue her sketch when another knock came from the door.
Violet groaned to herself in annoyance, placing her pencil down onto the table. “Well…” she spoke silently to herself, slowly standing up from her seat. “They want me to be more independent, don’t they? I think I’m capable of answering the door…”
With that, Violet began to make her way to the front of the house, her hair falling over half her face. Keeping calm, she opened the door, her eyes peering into the darkness to see a trio of NSA agents on her porch.
"Err… Can I help you guys with something..?"
