Lay paper flat as fate and at the ready
With hovered pen, a shape in scribble find
But words alone are by these lines kept steady
There's no such stay for what is in my mind
.
Pain, for Darcy, comes in colors. The violet of a bruise, and the soul-drenched gray of loss, of a moment past forever.
There is so much she might say if she had Bing's talent for painting. But if she had anything of Bing's, she would not be broken and bitter, scratching out her heart on paper because she could never let anything go.
Even beginning is agony. He is not Dear Eli, he can never be that.
Darcy puts pen to paper and head to heart, as she has always done, and always suffered for.
.
She doesn't sleep that night. There have been too many nights like this to count, but pain comes in colors, and no shade is ever the same.
.
He hates her. She doesn't know if he wanted to. Blame is easy to lift, even if it is hard to carry.
.
"Where are you going?" Fitz asks, in the morning. He's going in late to work; he wanted to make sure she was alright. Fitz loves her more than she deserves, but not, perhaps, more than she needs.
.
Darcy runs a hand through her hair. She feels grimy all over, still, but looking impeccable is part of her duty. "There's something I have to do," she says. The paper between her fingers doesn't feel heavy. It's light. Light like the flowers she laid on her parents' coffins.
Weight is no measure of pain. Pain is about colors. Hasn't she always known that? Bing loves that detail of her mind. That Darcy, always dressed in black and neutrals, sees the world awash in a sunset. Numbers, letters, and now yes, matters of the heart.
She writes in black and white. Whether Eli can see the red between the lines, the blues and purples of her sorrow, is another matter entirely.
.
When she sees Eli, she has nothing to say. It's all been poured out, color and ink and something that must at least be akin to love, on the thin, light paper in her hands. She stands there, impeccable, and feels like she can't breathe.
.
Eli takes the letter. Maybe he has to; human curiosity is her greatest ally here. Who wouldn't read it? Whoever kept a letter unread? She prays.
Darcy prays, because faith is not a feeling.
.
She wonders what Bing would think of this picture; the one that is in her mind of red and black and the gold of Eli's smile, never meant for her. Pain isn't always gray. Sometimes pain looks exactly as love did, vibrant and warm, crushing against her ribs, thirsting to be made into art.
Maybe pain is supposed to be art, to be more than stark lines on thick paper; more than black and white.
But Darcy isn't Bing.
She hasn't the talent.