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wearsredhelmet.livejournal.com) wrote in
shatterverse2008-03-13 02:37 pm
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Thanks to Will, Bridgette has a box of crayons and is putting them to good use.
She's lying on her tummy in the Cooper living room, drawing. A few pictures are scattered around: a blonde-haired girl riding a green and red horse with a huge blue horn. A big tree with black, jagged leaves (or are they birds?), with large red lumps underneath it. Something that might be a lizard, striped and spotted with every colour in the crayon box, floating on a cloud. A man in a green hat with his hand on the shoulder of a young boy with bright red hair. A rainbow.
She's staring thoughtfully at a blank sheet of paper. Possibly the artist does not mind being interrupted.
She's lying on her tummy in the Cooper living room, drawing. A few pictures are scattered around: a blonde-haired girl riding a green and red horse with a huge blue horn. A big tree with black, jagged leaves (or are they birds?), with large red lumps underneath it. Something that might be a lizard, striped and spotted with every colour in the crayon box, floating on a cloud. A man in a green hat with his hand on the shoulder of a young boy with bright red hair. A rainbow.
She's staring thoughtfully at a blank sheet of paper. Possibly the artist does not mind being interrupted.
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"Oh, hello!" Bridgette greets. Someone's not terribly shy - she reaches out her had to pet the bunny a moment later.
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"Your ears are pretty. I didn't know ears could go down like that."
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"Who'd try to shoot you?!"
He's a cute little bunny! (She knows that the world doesn't care what's cute and what's not, that bad things can happen for no reason. Sometimes she forgets. It's easier that way.)
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"Whatever I feel," Bridge replies, with a shrug.
"Could draw you, if you want."
Apparently Bridgette feels the Bunny simply will say yes, for she starts drawing him - with a red crayon.
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Bridgette notes the gnawing - when the drawing of Bunny takes shape, it looks like he's trying to eat his own foot.
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She starts colouring in the Bunny's spots - in purple.
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After some consideration, she adds, "And I don't know if he really exists. He could be just from my brain."
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Says the kid who looks eight at most.
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With a flourish, she presents his portrait - himself done in red and purple, eating his foot.
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She hands it to him, in fact.
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There's a woman walking through the wall.
She pauses to stare, really quite rudely, at Bridge.
It's almost like she thinks she's invisible.
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Bridgette eventually gets the feeling like someone is watching her. She glances around, her gaze finding Alice.
"Oh - hello," Bridge says, with a polite smile.
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Huh.
"That your kid sister?"
A nod to Marie, who-- well, ghosts have a way of noticing other ghosts. It's a thing.
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"I'm dead, kid. Most people can't."
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With what she feels is the appropriate solemnity (which really comes off as an affected seriousness), Bridgette says, "I am really sorry that you are dead."
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"Me too, believe me. It's--" okay, language, Alice, language-- "really damn boring, for one."
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And then frowns.
"--wait, ghosts sleep? I don't."
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"I can wake her up," Bridge replies carelessly - only to fall conspicuously silent at Alice's question.
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Headtilt?
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(The van is dark. Bridgette's eyes are raw from crying. Ariel stopped sobbing before she did. It's so hard to stop. She'll never make fun of her sister again, she tells herself, because Ariel can stop crying.
"Just go to sleep, Bridge," Ariel repeats, as she does every so often. Bridgette tries and fails, as she does every time Ariel tells her to.
""
Bridgette raises her head. She tries to pull against the tape binding her legs and arms, but of course she can't get free.
"Marie-- Marie--" Then she's crying again, and Ariel is too. Little arms encircle Bridgette's neck.
Bridgette doesn't think about why Marie isn't bound, or why she didn't hear the van door open. All she knows is that Dr. Walker took Marie away and now she's back.)
Tears are in her eyes, but they haven't fallen yet.
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Good job on that one, Cooper.
...
...
"...Sorry."
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She can't bring herself to say it. The tears splash against the pristine white of the paper.
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Alice's presence isn't cold. It's like being hugged by a warm breeze, almost.
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Marie sits up, suspiciously quickly for someone that was sleeping moments ago.
"Bridge?" she murmurs, concerned, getting up from the couch and walking over. Alice gets a confused three year old's stare. It rapidly grows hostile.
"Go 'way," Marie tells Alice, hands balling into fists.
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("Bridgette, you have to take Marie and run. Run and don't stop."
"But-- what about you?" There are gunshots in the distance. They have guns. Footsteps are coming closer, heavy boots thudding against the ground.
"Go, Bridge. We'll meet up soon. I dreamed it."
Bridgette wishes she could see Ariel's face, but it's too dark. She hugs her sister, and Ariel breaks it a moment later.
"Take care of Marie."
Bridgette turns and bolts, her hand damp, clenched tight over Marie's.)
Ariel lied to her. Did she lie about the dream, too? They haven't met up yet....
With a sob, Bridgette leans into Alice's arms.
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What Alice would be saying, if she weren't busy: I can't go, you idiot, your sister needs me.
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"GO!" Marie shrieks - and then launches herself at Alice's closest arm, attempting to pry it from Bridgette.
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The flicker gets a confused stare from Bridgette, but only for a moment - she has many more issues to deal with now.
"Okay, Bridge, okay," Marie whispers as she clings.
"'M sorry, really sorry...." Bridgette sobs.
Marie is three. She will always be three, and will never understand why her sister is sorry.
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Very sick. (And she knows why.)
Some days are better than others, though, and today is one of her better days.
And really, she'd rather be around the weird kid right now than the even weirder adults. She also hasn't seen Bridge in... a very long time, so it can't hurt to check up on her.
(Alright. Lenore has a soft spot. Shut up.)
"Hey."
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There are papers around her - crumpled, torn up, flung across the living room, as are some crayons.
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That's really not what Lenore expected.
Shoving her hands into her pockets, she eyes the child.
Leaning against the wall, she asks: "What's wrong?"
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""