Scooter: Here's the final (for now maybe) drabble I've got for this fandom. Let me just say that, in my opinion, "The Forgotten Portrait" is the saddest ending. It's both my second favorite and my least favorite ending. I won't bore you all with the reasons, but that's how it is. This is...well, my take on an epilogue of that particular ending. Enjoy!
Eternal Slumber
She didn't know why they started, but she could pinpoint exactly when they had started. Ever since that slightly cloudy day when her parents had taken her to that art gallery to see Guertena's works she had been having the same dream over and over and over again. It never changed, and nothing much especially happened, but she always, always, without fail, woke with tears in her eyes (and sometimes even with her arm outstretched as if trying to grab hold of something).
One second her eyes would be closed and she would be on her own bed in her own home, and the next she was back in that art gallery, staring at a portrait that never failed to evoke a feeling of intense sorrow. Every time she awoke in that gallery she would stare at that painting, at the man inside the frame, the man sleeping against the wall. "The Forgotten Portrait", it was called.
His body was slumped over, his head resting on his shoulder while his wavy hair shadowed his eyes. His right arm was crossing his hip and in his left hand he held a flower stem that was utterly devoid of petals (It's a rose stem, she thought with certainty, because she knew that's what it was. And the rose was blue.).
The man's face was expressionless and he looked to be at peace, but the girl always, always knew that it wasn't a peaceful sleep at all.
She reached out and touched the painting, touched the man's face gently as tears streamed down her cheeks. She felt like she was forgetting something important, but she didn't know what. She didn't know why this portrait – no, why this man was so important, but staring at him made her chest burn and throb and ache.
(If you need me. . . .)
She could hear his voice in her mind, she could see him beside her, holding her hand and squeezing it reassuringly. She never spoke to him only looked at him, only watched him.
(I'll come running. . . .)
This time . . . this time the dream changed.
She fell to her knees before the portrait.
"Garry. . . .!" She stared up at the kind, gentle, cowardly, funny man in the portrait and said his name again. "Garry, Garry! Wake up, Garry, wake up, you've slept long enough now, haven't you?"
She awoke with a start, hand outstretched in front of her into the darkness of her bedroom while tears dried on her cheeks and pillow. It had been different this time. She'd spoken his name and remembered who he was. She remembered how she'd left him to sleep for just a little while longer (He must be exhausted! she'd thought back then).
But as she thought back to her dream, thought back and remembered Garry as he slept she realized something. The realization was slow, painful, and cold, and when it finally fully came to light, the girl rolled over and buried her face into her pillow as sobs overtook her. Her small body shook with tears of grief, regret, and guilt.
"He's not sleeping!" Ib cried into her pillow, "He's not sleeping!"
Scooter: I need to write something happy now. I really do. I love Garry, and I love his father-daughter/big brother-little sister relationship with Ib. It's absolutely adorable. Anyway, I'll see everybody next update!