@dawnblazr : i will try to go home. —renoir !!
the last unicorn 𓇢𓆸 accepting ;;
An image flashes before her eyes - and she is distraught, both in heart and mind, for she cannot say for sure if it's all an illusion born from her visit inside that cursed Canvas and what has become of it, or if it is just a distant, repressed memory resurfacing to torment her. A punishment she has to endure either way, but it's troubling; she shakes her head imperceptibly - but the image doesn't go away. Perhaps it is the hollow promise he has just made that has caused it to manifest, and her scowl conveys this realization. It's all there in that flash of a bittersweet, colorful world, a busy street of many lights and noises, decorated windows and flower petals. And she sees it clearly - for a brief instant it's as if she's much shorter, her steps as light as a fairytale fairy's, in a frilly dress of tulle and lace, her hand in his. Strong fingers around her much smaller palm, a sweet, warm yet tight and secure grip, a familiar vice keeping her close - to him, to her mother, to the prim-looking stroller with her baby brother.
There's more. A short puffy finger pointing at a particularly cute ribbon for her growing red hair displayed behind a shopping window, one among many others that has caught her attention. Hollow, oh - so painfully hollow are the words that follow; hers are a string of ones made mostly of "please", "papa", "just this once" - while his are of promises made of "tomorrows". He explains things calmly. It's indeed time to go home, for a reason or another she cannot fully grasp yet. She protests weakly, then complies. She's assured the latest ribbon to add in her collection can wait a day more. An hour or two later, perhaps, and the pleading girl will have forgotten entirely of that hollow promises. No matter, it's time to go home.
Not anymore. She cannot be so easily swayed. Once again the same event is staged before Clea's eyes - the same unwilling actors occupy the stage; but her fingers are now long and slender, her hair no longer needs lacey ribbons and he has no more power over her - or so she tells herself. She cannot feel the grip of his hand in hers. And this time, she would not forget his promise of tomorrows.
❛ Try ? Try-- ? No, no, you must. ❜ she whispers, and for a brief moment their roles seem to be inverted. She is the stern parent, and he's the child. And his object of desire, his ribbon sitting behind a window, unreachable, is his Aline. It makes her heart burn of many conflicting emotions - anger, pity, love, and more anger, resignation. The house has been emptier since the fire, true, and Aline's longer and longer periods of absence to stay inside the Canvas have not helped anyone. But to possibly lose him too behind that veil of colors and ink is the promise of a tragedy, when there was much more to do back home-- ! She has not asked for any of that - no ! She has never asked to be turned in a mother, a father, all at the same time, for her sister due to their parents' decisions. ❛ If not for yourself, nor me, come back for Alicia. ❜
And he cannot fool her any longer about that stall, it's a war destined to last if Aline is given access to the painting. Does her decision to step in make her selfish though ? How does he see her, scowl and all - as a child or as a woman ? Perhaps he views her the same way her sister sees her now, back home - in the emptier, silent home. He would not leave his love, though. ❛ Think about it, she has come here to wallow in self-pity, yes, but she has always returned. What makes you think this time will be different, Papa ? ❜ it's almost a plea and she hates herself for that. It's the Canvas' doing too, now she's sure of it, playing tricks on her. Everything is a reminder of him.
A glance back at him and the corner of her eyes stop burning - it must be the excessive Chroma, she tells herself.
