#c;barney

[sbjct7]

       “Hey Uncle Barney, I don't really like archery; too many drawbacks.”

[subjectevelyn]

             [  She's never been happier to be out of the labs than today                                       and she knows just who to prove this to.            Her throwing dagger leaves a lingering coolness in her palm                                                            and bites at her skin.              She'll grin playfully as she sneaks around the perimeter                            before executing a quick and steady throw.  ]

                  “Hey Uncle Charlie! Think fast!”

[subjectevelyn]

She leaves the box somewhere she is sure her uncle will find it, it isn't exactly a small box which ensures he will most certainly find it.

The colourfully and carefully wrapped box is topped with a purple ribbon, there's a small card also taped to the top that says

                              "Season's beatings from your favourite niece."

And within the box it holds a knit Christmas sweater wrapped around a limited edition box set of Star Trek: The Original Series while beneath it lay a purple bow she had picked and customized herself.  

Finally, at the bottom of the package is an almost childish drawing of two people exchanging gifts in front of a Christmas tree; one smaller and blonde while the other is taller and red headed.

On the back of the page, written seemingly in pink crayon, it says:

                                       "Merry Christmas, Uncle Barney!

                                                      Love, Evelyn Barton.  

                                             P.S. Space, the final frontier.                          These are the adventures of Charles Bernard Barton."

[subjectevelyn]

" Barney Barton has passed away. " [ c'mon you obvs don't know who this is ]

It’s an intricate and detailed snowflake that blows in the winds of her mind that represents Barney Barton; her uncle, her hero, her family.

It withstands against the gusts of air that would break most and is seemingly coated in a protective layer of ice; it tries hard to soar separate from the others.

And in doing so, it falls hard into the snowy grave that is the ground as it drowns with the other fallen flakes.

Her arms are folded, her posture is ridged and she turns away quickly with eyes shut tight. Her nails dig so far into the skin of her arms that she feels it break, bleed and run as she refuses to cry.

A sob lay dying in her throat as her mind touches upon the possible ways he has passed. Was it painful? Was it natural? Was it forced? Was he in pain?

The heel of her hand meets with her forehead as she bows her head in sadness and shakes with tears

All-in-all, you’re just another brick in the wall.