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rp] catch me i'm falling // catch me before it's too late
Saturday, August 25th, 2012 12:05 am((Potential trigger warning for servere anxiety and angst and daddy issues and all the makes Sophia Sophia. Sorta goes with this old fic.))
Sophia hasn't left her apartment in two weeks. She hasn't seen anyone aside from her cousin Alice coming in to try and take care of her, but she keeps sending Alice away. She doesn't want to be taken care of or loved or even looked at. Why? Why should she have that? No. Alone. Alone is better. Alone is what it's been since Daddy left, and she can be fine. She can paint.
She paints. She paints in a manic manner. Canvas after canvas, paper, walls; everything is painted. Colors are dark and thick as she's pushing everything she feels as far as she can spread it. She's covered in days of paint. She hasn't showered in days. She hasn't eaten. All she has done is paint or sit in the corner.
She likes sitting in the corner. Nothing can get her there, and she can see if anyone tries to come inside. No. No one can come in. There's not enough space. Not enough air. Only Sophia. Just Sophia. Alone.
She hasn't seen or heard from her father since he was here and she's glad. But she's not. He should have called. Should have come to see her. She doesn't want him and she does all at once. It hurt. He made her hurt. He chose his own pain over her and she can't figure out why. Why can't she just be his little girl again? Before the wings, before the death, when they were happy. When they smiled. She just wants to go back. She needs to go back.
And all of her paintings are bad. They're ugly and not happy. They remind her of Mama dying and everything that came after. She wants pretty paintings. Pretty and happy, none with the colors of Mama's hair or eyes. Nothing Daddy will be sad to look at. She needs paint better pieces for him. Then he'll come back.
She goes over to the window in her living room, pulls it open, and throws one of her paintings out. It's dark, covered in black and deep reds and purples, with a pair of wings drowning in the colors. She watches it fall a few stories to the sidewalk and it feels good. She turns and grabs the next piece. It's the colors from her mother's dying eyes all spalshed and swirled together, and that too she throws out the window. And just like that she is throwing every painting she can get her hands on out the window.
Make it go away. Make it all go away, and make Daddy come back. No more painting, no more wings. There'll be no more sadness and he'll come back.
Sophia hasn't left her apartment in two weeks. She hasn't seen anyone aside from her cousin Alice coming in to try and take care of her, but she keeps sending Alice away. She doesn't want to be taken care of or loved or even looked at. Why? Why should she have that? No. Alone. Alone is better. Alone is what it's been since Daddy left, and she can be fine. She can paint.
She paints. She paints in a manic manner. Canvas after canvas, paper, walls; everything is painted. Colors are dark and thick as she's pushing everything she feels as far as she can spread it. She's covered in days of paint. She hasn't showered in days. She hasn't eaten. All she has done is paint or sit in the corner.
She likes sitting in the corner. Nothing can get her there, and she can see if anyone tries to come inside. No. No one can come in. There's not enough space. Not enough air. Only Sophia. Just Sophia. Alone.
She hasn't seen or heard from her father since he was here and she's glad. But she's not. He should have called. Should have come to see her. She doesn't want him and she does all at once. It hurt. He made her hurt. He chose his own pain over her and she can't figure out why. Why can't she just be his little girl again? Before the wings, before the death, when they were happy. When they smiled. She just wants to go back. She needs to go back.
And all of her paintings are bad. They're ugly and not happy. They remind her of Mama dying and everything that came after. She wants pretty paintings. Pretty and happy, none with the colors of Mama's hair or eyes. Nothing Daddy will be sad to look at. She needs paint better pieces for him. Then he'll come back.
She goes over to the window in her living room, pulls it open, and throws one of her paintings out. It's dark, covered in black and deep reds and purples, with a pair of wings drowning in the colors. She watches it fall a few stories to the sidewalk and it feels good. She turns and grabs the next piece. It's the colors from her mother's dying eyes all spalshed and swirled together, and that too she throws out the window. And just like that she is throwing every painting she can get her hands on out the window.
Make it go away. Make it all go away, and make Daddy come back. No more painting, no more wings. There'll be no more sadness and he'll come back.
