This is a random little story about a person, who I think i intended to be Claire. I have absolutely no knowledge of the newest season, so this is based on how she was like in season 1. I don't own Claire. Enjoy!
Eyes Closed
Eyes closed. Mind open.
They say you can hear with your mind, you know.
With her eyes closed she can hear the deep rumble of speeding motorcycles, the screeching of metallic wheels on pavement. She hears blazing sirens and loud horns, a sure sign that a police chase is underway. She picks up on the sounds of opening doors and clicking locks. Sounds from nonliving objects are all brilliant, she thinks, but somehow sounds and beats created by the living are much more appealing to her. And so she listens to the living and turns away from the lifeless. Jubilant people gleefully stampede their way into an echoing building, filled to the brim with soft jazz music. She hears the throngs of people laughing, drunk on the joy of plain living. Her mind sings a song, melancholy and bitter-why couldn't she talk with them? Then she hears silence. How can you hear silence? Well, you know it is there, it surrounds you, suffocates you. It was never silent where she used to live. She takes a shuddering breath and wishes aloud to be once more in the city she loves; yet the cold winter of the region snatches her reverberating dreams away.
They say you can see with your mind, you know.
With her eyes closed she can see the world and just enjoy the view. She watches fancy and long operas, visits museums stuffed with all manners of famous art, and even comes across a carnival and a zoo. The carnival is abuzz with many different attractions, but she feels an internal tugging to visit the extensive zoo. Once there, she encounters all kinds of different and unique creatures moving within their cages. She also spies another sort of creature-the average human being. They stand in bundles outside the cages of lions and tigers, laughing. They are pointing and making fun of them, rejoicing in the fact that they are pitifully trapped in iron cells. But in truth the lions and tigers are laughing straight back at them-they are the smart ones, you see. They know they are not truly trapped-only their bodies are. Their spirits roam free, limitless like the universe they reside in. The lions and tigers know that humans, on the other hand, have trapped themselves with their stubborn narrow-mindedness. Although she visibly tenses at the mockery of the crowd, she mentally breathes a sigh of relief. Human she may be, but narrow minded she is not. She finally averts her eyes from the spectacle and turns to the avenue in the distance. Well-dressed people continue to pass by, even at this fading hour of night. This is, after all, the city that never sleeps. Cars continuously zoom by, shiny and new. They never stop coming, just like time-eventually it all catches up to you. The buildings seem to stand without an ounce of effort, their walls perfectly painted and eye-like windows clean. You can see through, right to their heart, where the people they love are housed. They all seem uncaring, for them life has been good, just as they think it should always be. They don't think of their homes, sheltering them from the rain and snow. The houses are perfect on the outside, but inside a cold indifference permeates their artificial warmth. Then all of a sudden, her focus changes, turns to the south side of town. The edge of her vision is blurred and unclear; how long has it been since she's been here? The homes sag and lean, as if a strong autumn wind can blow them over like a pile of cards. Yet their weathered faces are smiling, they've nothing to fear; they know their family will always be here. The people within touch the dirty brick walls-they praise their homes every day for their noble work. Her pale eyes spy never-ending rows of the same crumbled stone homes, and she wonders if her wish will come true.
They say you can taste with your mind, you know.
With her eyes closed she can taste the atmosphere around, so filled with excitement, tension and bliss. She can taste the clear and sparkling champagne; taste the mull of the distinct burgundy wine. Her mind knows that each and every life has a distinct flavor, like ice cream. If her mind were an ice cream parlor, she knows it would be empty-her life has nothing special now. The parlor of her mind is black and white since she knows there is no room for in-betweens. It was not always so monotonous, however. It was once filled with eccentric flavors, things that have never been eaten before. When she closes her bloodshot eyes she can still taste each and every flavor, popping in her mouth in raucous melodies. After all, was it not best to try the unexpected in a city full of mysteries? The savory image disintegrates, and she tastes something else that is cold, metallic and sharp. She knows what it is, of course-blood. She can also taste burning flesh, poisoned water, vomit and dirt. She can taste the fear radiating from the very core of her being, her very soul. Even still, she longs for this tangible fear to break the apathy she is enclosed in. She thinks it is much better to have a taste of life, no matter how fearful. Her life has no zest where she is, you see. It is almost as if she were an orange, mercilessly squeezed dry so that only the bitter-flavored peel remains.
They say you can smell with your mind, you know.
With her eyes closed she can smell the city's life. She can whiff the scent of fresh coffee in the mornings; smell the wafting aroma of baking bread. She can smell the sweet nectar of the autumn flowers and plants in Central Park, as well as their tantalizing innocence. Perhaps this was the reason why so many artists chose the park as their subject. It was so full of life, a patch of brilliant purity amidst a polluted city. As the wind flies by from the south she can smell a multitude of unpleasant things-cigarette smoke, garbage, and gunpowder. She knows life cannot always smell as sweet as a cupcake, yet she remains where she stands. The next second the unpleasant smell is gone, almost as if it were never there. She somehow knows that the people in the south side of town will never be able to make a large impact on society; they'll come and go, just like the wind.
They say you can feel with your mind, you know.
With her eyes closed she can feel the wind blowing about her, enclosing her in a gentle caress. Leaves catch in her long golden hair and she can feel the dust upon them. She can feel the crisp morning grass beneath her boot-covered feet as she walks out of the park and into a rush of bustling civilians. She can feel the thick crowd jostle and bump her from all directions. Everyone always has to get somewhere on time. Even after many centuries of wishing, time still operates on it's own accord; it waits for no one, no matter what the cause. She relishes in the serene feeling of snippets of the past. She can feel her body relax once she opens the heavy wooden door to her old home. She giggles to herself-why, it was almost as if she were opening a door to the past. Slowly she strolls inside, taking in every nook and cranny of the familiar dwelling. The house itself instantly warms; it knows that its old inhabitant is back for good. She savors the feeling of her warm, fuzzy blankets as she slips into her bed after a long, tiring day. She feels so warm on the outside, so why is it that she continues to shiver? Her subconscious knows, of course-her most desired wish will never come true. Even her dreams cannot make her believe in make-believe. She resurfaces from her dearly beloved dreamland and falls face first into the cold hands of reality.
Eyes open. Mind closed.