violence. / accepting. / @eternachamp
She’d used to confine most of her drawing to her journals, back before she met Victor and Hop. She’d carried it everywhere. But these days so many of her drawings are violent, angry, and she doesn’t want that touching her journal —— and besides. She has no way of knowing what they might take ire at if either of them were to see her with the diary in public and opt to read it. She’s not been flattering to either of them, after all. And worse — there are theories, there, notes on the books she’s read. About the Darkest Day, Eternatus. If they found out how much she knew, or guessed at the extent to which she was still researching…
Either way. The diary has to stay hidden.
He finds her with her sketchbook in the Wealds — sketching the scenery before her. It’s calming, and the only thing that makes her feel like a PERSON and not a collection of fears. Mum told her that when her thoughts were scary to draw what was in front of her, because that would force her to pay more attention to the world than to the frightening things in her head. Yet one of those FRIGHTENING THINGS appears before her, and she, instinctively, pulls the sketchbook to her chest to hide what’s there. There’s no need for it —— she doubts even he could hurt her for something as nonoffensive as a landscape drawing — and yet she feels a furious, instinctive desire to keep SOMETHING for herself. They’ve taken the sun and her sleep and her ability to breathe. They don’t get to see her art.
The display has him smirking, sloping and languid and mocking. “C’mon, Lil - li - an.” She refuses to wince at the sound of her name despite the way her skin crawls. “How about you…show me what you’re drawing?”
“You’ll — hurt my feelings, Lil…”
She shakes her head again, expression going pleading and then lowering to her lap. PLEASE Let her have this. Let her have one thing they haven’t taken or corrupted. It’s the only thing that still feels good — still feels like hers, like HER ———
His voice is flat when he speaks again — less teasing. “Give me your hand.”
Her eyes snap up. He crouches before her, holding his hand out expectantly. Her eyes dart between him and his palm, uncomprehending.
He says, again, “give me your…hand, Lil.” The smile is back. His head tilts, eyes flashing red, and she —————
Knows a threat when she sees one. She hears the OR ELSE he doesn’t need to verbalize and — nods. Hates it. Helpless. Stupid. Hates that he is going to hurt her and she HAS TO SAY YES. Her hand extends and rests in his and when it snaps to grasp her wrist, grip too tight, she wonders if he intends to break her fingers. Her eyes squeeze shut, expecting ——
It’s not breaking she feels. It’s heat against the center of her palm. Her eyes snap open — he’s holding a lighter beneath her palm. She understand. The heat goes from uncomfortable to painful too quick. He didn’t intend to break her hand, he wants to ——
She gasps, attempts to yank her hand back, but his grip is too tight and her struggling only makes his smirk grow wider. Her other hand buries in the dirt path beside her, desperate for sensation that doesn’t hurt. His grip tightens, close to breaking the wrist now. “Stay still,” he says, and she almost misses it past the sound of her own whimpers and half - screams. She’s never been burned like this before. It hurts! IT HURTS — !! She blinks and then commits to it, eyes closing, brows furrowing, and even that isn’t enough to stop the pained tears flowing down her cheeks.
When he finally releases her hand, she’s sobbing in earnest, and it snaps back to her chest. Her other covers it, protective, while she curls in on herself. He looks at her like a vaguely interesting thing — head tilted.
“Such a shame, Lil…now you can’t…draw.”
It’s all she can do not to spit at him in response. The pain is too much —— she glances at her hand and knows it’s second - degree and thanks the stars, at least, that it’s not WORSE. She’ll have to hide it from Mum, or spill a lie — she’ll have to be careful with it, she’ll ——-
Thoughts short circuit when she sees him stand — her eyes snap up, body curling further into itself. Her knees pull to her chest, legs protecting both her ribs and the sketchbook — but it seems that for now the game is over, for he only murmurs a CRUEL GOODBYE and turns on his heel. She sobs, miserable and only half there, over her palm. It hurts ———— it hurts too much ————-
But. He’s gone, and despite herself she feels a smirk curling her lips, even as the tears track down her face beside it. NOW SHE CAN’T DRAW?
Can’t go home until she stops crying. Until the pain abates or goes to numbness. She is still here — she might as well… Her unburned hand leaves the burned one; it curls instead around her pencil and then flips the page in her sketchbook. It settles against the paper — she sketches, quick, easy, experienced. Her smirk grows. Tears hit the page. She draws Victor’s eyes. Victor’s lips and mouth and jaw. Victor’s neck.
Thinks he took drawing from her. So did Noah, once, when she was twelve. But she learned to draw with both hands to spite him, and that means ——
He didn’t get to see the sketch book. And he didn’t take drawing from her. That means this time, she wins.
Her burned hand sits on the ground beside her. It hurts so bad. The tears won’t stop.
She draws a pair of small, dark hands around Victor’s throat.
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