✠ [ғιc] and тнιѕ war'ѕ noт over.
[Backdated to the first day Sarah got back to school after Elizabeth and Josef's deaths. Because I meant to and then I got lazy. :| MENTIONS A WHOLE LOT OF PEOPLE IN GAME WITHOUT PERMISSION. Deal. :x]
"You see what life throws out because you stand outside, shut out from the ferment itself. What is burned, used, is not regretted by anyone who is the fire consuming all this. If you were on fire you would enjoy throwing out what was dead. You would fight for the lightness of your movements. It is not living too fast and abandoning oneself that carries one towards death, but not moving. Then everything deteriorates. When parts of yourself die they are only like leaves. What refuses to live in you will become like cells through which the blood does not pass. There must be change."
She feels like tearing it apart every now and then.
The painting is once again familiar to her.
The canvas she chose, the colors she mixed to get just the right shade of sunflower, the ink splotched by her own signature at the lower right corner. She hates absolutely everything about it, would rather see it torn to shreds, except it has Elizabeth's handwriting on the back, words she left for Sarah, words Sarah has memorized by now, and they almost sound scathing when she repeats them in her head. In her own voice.
There's still blood on the sunflowers. She doesn't want to touch it.
Death she has been able to acquaint herself with.
She has helped people die before. The count will begin to rise starting this year, and they'll become intimate friends instead of acquaintances, but never had she done it with someone she cared about.
What happens after death for those that remain with the loss isn't exactly familiar to her.
They say one of the stages of grief is anger, and she didn't know.
-------
Elizabeth was only eighteen when she began to lose her mind.
She was eighteen, and they never talked about it, no one ever really talks about it with her, but it's there in the awkward pauses after she says, I am an angel of death, and she logically knows.
Just because Elizabeth was eighteen doesn't mean Sarah will be eighteen when it eventually happens to her.
There's Charlie, and he's wonderful, and he's still alive and funny and loyal and--
Elizabeth was eighteen and it doesn't mean Sarah will be, too.
Still.
------
The house she lives in is big.
Some might find it impressive, but Sarah believes there's too much space in it for only two people. It's impractical. It's stupid. So much seems so stupid lately. Technically, two people live in it, but business for her father these days means he spends his time out of the city more often than in it, and she can't help but wonder what this business truly entails.
He brings her gifts from his trips almost every time. Little tokens of his brand of affection.
They're to prove she isn't really forgotten, and when she wanders around a big house with a lot of space that seems utterly pointless and feels forgotten, or alone, or many of the other things teenagers are wont to feel, they can tell themselves it's not real.
The gift is one of those Russian dolls this time.
You open up it up and find many other dolls inside, and somehow this makes a lot of sense to her. The colors etched into the wood are beautiful, and she has an eye for it so it's the first thing she notices. She still can't find it in herself to say thank you.
When he hugs her, calls her princess, and says he loves her, like he always has and like he always does, the deeper knowledge of what happened only a few nights ago surfaces. The distant sound of gunshots, the blood on the walls, his friend with the gun, the locket he gave her, and she knows.
Deep down, she knows.
And she wants to scream at him. She wants to say, she was my friend.
Her jaw locks, but she winds her arms around his middle, the way she always has. "I love you, too."
------
For once, the Plastics and their boy toys or however one calls them these days are not bothering her. They are not teasing her, they are not calling her names, they are not making up rumors. It's entirely possible they have no idea Sarah is sitting in a small couch within earshot at the library while they talk.
If she'd remained quiet, absolutely nothing would've happened.
If she'd ignored their conversation, she wouldn't have felt the need to say anything in the first place.
She is the one to bring this unto herself.
She is clear on that and doesn't find it in herself to care.
Not many people know that there is some ridiculous (in her opinion) ~elite club~ within their high school but they do know of their opinions. It's made up entirely of angels, and they have an elitist mentality given to them by their parents, those traditionalists who don't agree with the Treaty.
Don't agree with much of the way Chicago politics operate.
If they don't like it, Sarah can't begin to understand why they stay here.
One of them is complaining.
Frilly voice and long, long nails and perfectly straightened hair. A wanderer fell through while she was driving to school, and she whines and she whines and she whines about how they're ruining everything, goes on to talk about how she didn't stop to help because why should she?
Wastes of space, is what she calls them, and that more or less does it for her.
"That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard," Sarah says.
"Excuse me?"
Sarah closes her book. "You're not deaf. The smartest student in all our school is a wanderer. If you looked outside your own little perfect bubble, you'd realize you can't generalize an entire group of people based on what mommy and daddy have been telling you, or what some of them have done in the past. They have some of our brightest," she says, thinking of Hermione and Dave Mr. Stutler.
"And our strongest."
She thinks of Martha Jones.
"And our bravest."
She thinks of Jeremy and Harry.
"A lot of them are brilliant doctors and physicists and law enforcers or they're talented musicians and writers and performers or they're just good people. And they would do a lot for 'your' stupid world you keep complaining about, which is also now theirs, but that's made near impossible because of people like you."
Whether they like it or not, they're in this school, either studying or teaching, and they're in this world, and they have a right to do all those things, to exist. And she is furious because these ideals are ideals that are twisted and get people killed, people who haven't done anything wrong, people who don't deserve to be treated like that. If she wasn't so angry she'd realize she is in no position to teach, that she is going about it the wrong way, but she is.
"Slum lover," one of them says while coughing into their hand.
"Seriously?" Sarah asks, only lifting an eyebrow. "That's the extent of your sharp wit and creativity? Thank you for proving my point."
Before any of them can answer, she barrels right in to continue with her rant. "And while we're at it, I have a helpful suggestion. While you're giving up your right to think for yourselves and make up your own minds, you should ask around. If angels and demons are really meant to only be at war, why so many are friends, or in love, or helping each other without needing to hurt each other in the least. There have been records of angels chosen to guard and protect those very demons. I'm sure they'll find something or someone to blame, but they might just have to blame the very same thing that gave them Callings in the first place, which doesn't work. Get back to me. I'm curious."
"Ms. Monroe!"
Sarah cuts herself off abruptly, but she doesn't turn around. She doesn't have to. She can recognize the librarian's voice, can almost see the hands on her hips and the bewildered and aghast expression on her face.
When she's kicked out of the library, possibly for the first time in all her life, she doesn't shed a tear.
-----
It all goes back to that painting frequently.
Either when she wakes up or when she's about to go to bed, not that she's been sleeping much lately, if at all, but it's there, and she wants to tear it apart with her hands but she can't, not when Elizabeth's writing is there, not when she wanted her to have it for some reason, even if it's a reason Sarah doesn't understand.
There's a lot of things she doesn't understand and maybe she never will.
There's still blood on the sunflowers.
She slides the canvas underneath the bed.
Maybe if she doesn't see it, she can forget it's there.
"You see what life throws out because you stand outside, shut out from the ferment itself. What is burned, used, is not regretted by anyone who is the fire consuming all this. If you were on fire you would enjoy throwing out what was dead. You would fight for the lightness of your movements. It is not living too fast and abandoning oneself that carries one towards death, but not moving. Then everything deteriorates. When parts of yourself die they are only like leaves. What refuses to live in you will become like cells through which the blood does not pass. There must be change."
She feels like tearing it apart every now and then.
The painting is once again familiar to her.
The canvas she chose, the colors she mixed to get just the right shade of sunflower, the ink splotched by her own signature at the lower right corner. She hates absolutely everything about it, would rather see it torn to shreds, except it has Elizabeth's handwriting on the back, words she left for Sarah, words Sarah has memorized by now, and they almost sound scathing when she repeats them in her head. In her own voice.
There's still blood on the sunflowers. She doesn't want to touch it.
Death she has been able to acquaint herself with.
She has helped people die before. The count will begin to rise starting this year, and they'll become intimate friends instead of acquaintances, but never had she done it with someone she cared about.
What happens after death for those that remain with the loss isn't exactly familiar to her.
They say one of the stages of grief is anger, and she didn't know.
-------
Elizabeth was only eighteen when she began to lose her mind.
She was eighteen, and they never talked about it, no one ever really talks about it with her, but it's there in the awkward pauses after she says, I am an angel of death, and she logically knows.
Just because Elizabeth was eighteen doesn't mean Sarah will be eighteen when it eventually happens to her.
There's Charlie, and he's wonderful, and he's still alive and funny and loyal and--
Elizabeth was eighteen and it doesn't mean Sarah will be, too.
Still.
------
The house she lives in is big.
Some might find it impressive, but Sarah believes there's too much space in it for only two people. It's impractical. It's stupid. So much seems so stupid lately. Technically, two people live in it, but business for her father these days means he spends his time out of the city more often than in it, and she can't help but wonder what this business truly entails.
He brings her gifts from his trips almost every time. Little tokens of his brand of affection.
They're to prove she isn't really forgotten, and when she wanders around a big house with a lot of space that seems utterly pointless and feels forgotten, or alone, or many of the other things teenagers are wont to feel, they can tell themselves it's not real.
The gift is one of those Russian dolls this time.
You open up it up and find many other dolls inside, and somehow this makes a lot of sense to her. The colors etched into the wood are beautiful, and she has an eye for it so it's the first thing she notices. She still can't find it in herself to say thank you.
When he hugs her, calls her princess, and says he loves her, like he always has and like he always does, the deeper knowledge of what happened only a few nights ago surfaces. The distant sound of gunshots, the blood on the walls, his friend with the gun, the locket he gave her, and she knows.
Deep down, she knows.
And she wants to scream at him. She wants to say, she was my friend.
Her jaw locks, but she winds her arms around his middle, the way she always has. "I love you, too."
------
For once, the Plastics and their boy toys or however one calls them these days are not bothering her. They are not teasing her, they are not calling her names, they are not making up rumors. It's entirely possible they have no idea Sarah is sitting in a small couch within earshot at the library while they talk.
If she'd remained quiet, absolutely nothing would've happened.
If she'd ignored their conversation, she wouldn't have felt the need to say anything in the first place.
She is the one to bring this unto herself.
She is clear on that and doesn't find it in herself to care.
Not many people know that there is some ridiculous (in her opinion) ~elite club~ within their high school but they do know of their opinions. It's made up entirely of angels, and they have an elitist mentality given to them by their parents, those traditionalists who don't agree with the Treaty.
Don't agree with much of the way Chicago politics operate.
If they don't like it, Sarah can't begin to understand why they stay here.
One of them is complaining.
Frilly voice and long, long nails and perfectly straightened hair. A wanderer fell through while she was driving to school, and she whines and she whines and she whines about how they're ruining everything, goes on to talk about how she didn't stop to help because why should she?
Wastes of space, is what she calls them, and that more or less does it for her.
"That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard," Sarah says.
"Excuse me?"
Sarah closes her book. "You're not deaf. The smartest student in all our school is a wanderer. If you looked outside your own little perfect bubble, you'd realize you can't generalize an entire group of people based on what mommy and daddy have been telling you, or what some of them have done in the past. They have some of our brightest," she says, thinking of Hermione and Dave Mr. Stutler.
"And our strongest."
She thinks of Martha Jones.
"And our bravest."
She thinks of Jeremy and Harry.
"A lot of them are brilliant doctors and physicists and law enforcers or they're talented musicians and writers and performers or they're just good people. And they would do a lot for 'your' stupid world you keep complaining about, which is also now theirs, but that's made near impossible because of people like you."
Whether they like it or not, they're in this school, either studying or teaching, and they're in this world, and they have a right to do all those things, to exist. And she is furious because these ideals are ideals that are twisted and get people killed, people who haven't done anything wrong, people who don't deserve to be treated like that. If she wasn't so angry she'd realize she is in no position to teach, that she is going about it the wrong way, but she is.
"Slum lover," one of them says while coughing into their hand.
"Seriously?" Sarah asks, only lifting an eyebrow. "That's the extent of your sharp wit and creativity? Thank you for proving my point."
Before any of them can answer, she barrels right in to continue with her rant. "And while we're at it, I have a helpful suggestion. While you're giving up your right to think for yourselves and make up your own minds, you should ask around. If angels and demons are really meant to only be at war, why so many are friends, or in love, or helping each other without needing to hurt each other in the least. There have been records of angels chosen to guard and protect those very demons. I'm sure they'll find something or someone to blame, but they might just have to blame the very same thing that gave them Callings in the first place, which doesn't work. Get back to me. I'm curious."
"Ms. Monroe!"
Sarah cuts herself off abruptly, but she doesn't turn around. She doesn't have to. She can recognize the librarian's voice, can almost see the hands on her hips and the bewildered and aghast expression on her face.
When she's kicked out of the library, possibly for the first time in all her life, she doesn't shed a tear.
-----
It all goes back to that painting frequently.
Either when she wakes up or when she's about to go to bed, not that she's been sleeping much lately, if at all, but it's there, and she wants to tear it apart with her hands but she can't, not when Elizabeth's writing is there, not when she wanted her to have it for some reason, even if it's a reason Sarah doesn't understand.
There's a lot of things she doesn't understand and maybe she never will.
There's still blood on the sunflowers.
She slides the canvas underneath the bed.
Maybe if she doesn't see it, she can forget it's there.