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10.06.2015
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10.06.2015
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10.08.2015
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Fiona sat on one of the benches that surrounded the main part of campus. Her tongue sticking out slightly as her eyes focused on nothing in particular. The spot next to her was a jumbled pile of colored pencils. Currently red was the color she was using as her hands sketched on the pad laying on her lap. Her eyes flickering down to it before returning to the space that had captivated her attention and imagination.
Eventually, Aaron crossed the space she was staring into, looking rather distracted himself. While the docs said no putting real strain on his body for the next few days after the school incident, long walks around the campus had been one of his ways of keeping active for the down time. That and practising his power, which doesn't really need muscular exertion. Besides, it was relaxing.
The scene shifted as Aaron walked in front of her view. She'd pout for a moment, looking back at her drawing which was still incomplete before putting the pad of paper aside. Pain and sadness radiated from him strongly enough that she could feel it from where she was. And so, with soft barefoot steps she'd glide across the grass to position herself in front of Aaron, her hands clasping each other behind her back as she smiled at him.
Ah, Autumn. So pretty. So relaxing, with the crisp air on his face. So...
Hey, person suddenly in front of him. His foot was in the air but he slammed it down to avoid running straight into her! After a second, he knew her. Fiona, right? The one he'd seen at the fountain, the one who predicted tragedy.
Well, she'd sure as hell gotten it. Might've been even worse with one wrong move, too. If he'd been an instant slower...
Autumn was the bet season. Crisp, cool air despite Chicago's city grime, bright colors, the last bits of warmth before it began to snow, harvest moons, and people with the same idea as her to enjoy it while they could.
She sees Fiona first, approaching the pair behind Aaron and lifts a hand in a greeting, but doesn't wave.
"Oh, hey Fiona. Aaron." It took her a moment to recognize him from behind, but she approaches until she's a small distance from both. Definitely in time to hear about the loss of a friend, which causes her to fall silent, as well.
More than Fiona knew. The hollowness in his stomach was still there, and if he went to the service like he told Jack he planned to, he had no idea how he'd face her family. If he would. He'd look over his shoulder when he heard Rebecca, giving her a little wave.
She'd bounce off back to the bench and pick up several colored pencils and her pad of paper. Ripping off three pieces of paper she'd gently hum to herself, her body swaying as she did so.
She'd return after a moment handing each of them a piece of paper. Aaron would be given a forest green colored pencil while Rebecca would be given a light pink one. Fiona herself had an orange one in her hand now.
"If you are both still sad about the ones that died we should write them letters. Tell them everything you want to say!"
She beamed like it was the best idea in the world.
Why light pink? Reaching out with a wary hand, Rebecca takes the paper, then looks back at Fiona.
"Why? They're not going to be reading it." Says the girl who does candlelight services when no one's looking. But it's different; it's hard to delude yourself into believing they'll read the letter.
Huh. Okay then. Seemed like something the counsellor would have him do. On the face of it, the whole idea seemed absurd, but Fiona looked so earnest about it. So willing to help. Despite himself, Aaron reached out to take the pencil and bit of paper with a little nod.
Fiona would plop down on the ground and slowly start to write whether or not the others did. She'd use her arm as a makeshift table. Slow and carefully she'd write, but she wasn't in a hurry. Once again the humming would resume.
Rebecca stares at Fiona for a couple moments, then she takes a seat by the bench, curling up to take as little space as possible as she uses it to serve as a table. She's done this before, of course. Counselors are big on the therapy that helps heal, even if the dead can't know.
Part of her thinks it won't be so bad. She already knows what to write, anyway.
Well, he understood the theory. Get the feelings all written down and out of your head, and it was the next best thing to actually talking to the person, right? Better than dwelling on them. Besides, Fi was trying to help them, he couldn't just snub her.
He sat down on the bench, supporting the paper on his thigh, and started mulling over what to write.
Miranda,
Hrm. Ponder ponder. The name looked nice in his neat cursive print but it was only a start.
She just kept humming and gently swaying as she wrote her letter. Shifting the paper as she needed to over her arm. Her writing was far from neat but it didn't seem to bother her.
Rebecca doesn't use names for the letter. She doesn't trust that it won't be seen.
Me again. Still miss you. Still trying to do things like I should. It's not working. A pause.
I don't even know why I'm doing this. Or what I'm doing. 'Sorry' doesn't seem like it should be enough. Probably because it isn't. I can't take back what I did, or I would have already. Another pause. Her handwriting's small and at a bit of a slant with the way she's sitting, but she doesn't care.