Does the title need to be explained? Just my writings from the perspectives of different characters. There are no good guys or bad guys in the show. At all. They're all just teenagers. I have my preference of the love triangle, but quite frankly, I'm trying to write, not be a commentator. But please, I am willing to discuss it. So drop me a line. I don't think I need to say who's speaking for each one. I really, REALLY don't. Spoilers for up to the season finale. I'll put up three drabbles a chapter, I say. Maybe more, if I have them in me. A drabble, as fanfic writers know, is a short piece of 100 to 1000 words.
[Svengali to be Crowned]
He has learned to hate the sound of his own voice.
He has learned to hate the cadences it wears when he plucks the strings in her throat so can hear her song and how it manages to purr a compliment trickle down her ear and he has mastered the loathing of how his voice has become the James Dean of the air that hangs in his hometown and how easily it keeps coming his throat when the girl in front of him takes the first step into something natural --rebelling without a cause, I've all but the leather jacket--and how so few noises can drown out the sound of an opening door and an earthquake violating the fault lines in his best friend's heart.
There is very little this voice cannot do, but he cannot be a man. He cannot say 'No', he cannot say 'Yes'.
He can only say "Are you sure?", because he's not sure of anything anymore.
[Marble Blindfold]
Her very first sketch was of Justice, the statue above the courtroom, where her father served jury duty that once. Her father thought of it as a chore, and she remembers to this day how he would groan at the end of every day of it. She wants to be a courtroom artist someday, just to get a few bucks while she works to have her art seen and admired because it deserves to be, like she deserves to be.
She wishes she could've captured that day on paper.
She wishes that Travis could have seen the way the lines on his face formed anger and remorse and admission and resignation and how dark his eyes were the whole day through and the tears that would've stained her page as she drew it to put down on that singular table at Mickey's, and she wishes that Lily could wring her hands like the Lady Macbeth that Travis is making out of her and see on the vellum how her shining gold tresses have molded into a pile of hay and what a coward she was to unplug her phone because she is the traitor and the one responsible and she is smiling all the while through her tears of guilt and she has to witness to believe how the pencil tears through the paper due to unadulterated hatred.
She used to tie her hair back as she slept, but she doesn't that night and she won't put in those clips again because auburn makes for a damn good blinder so that she can keep going. Justice is blind. She can't be blind to justice, though, as much as she would like to be, can't be blind to the fact that she was warned and smoldering teenage boys won't stay with one girl forever.
She's glad that she is the artist of them, because she wishes no one to capture the way she sobs for a boy she loved and lost.
[The Sign of the...?]
He felt like Zorro.
Now, those were four words he could never utter in public. He could not say he felt like dressing in all black, or wearing a mask, or letting the shirt he wore be poofy or suddenly donning breeches. Heck, his 'fro could never fit under the hat in the first place, so why say he felt like Zorro?
Well, the matter was that he did.
It was only too easy to glamorize his life, to say that he was inciting the students of their town into thinking for themselves, doing for themselves, that he has the dramatic double life that undoubtedly would remind all of that 'bold renegade'.
But that wasn't when he felt like Zorro.
It was when he saw her there and there was that utter confidence that he found
so sexy and inviting and it was Robbie there, not Question Mark even though they
were one and the same and even he couldn't say who it was that kissed her and
savored her and felt how he weakened her more--hell, how he weakened HIM!-- with
that than with any barbed word on the air. The crowd did not cheer, only murmur,
and he had no whip to crack, no mark to leave, save for the flush in her cheeks.
But that was alright.
In fact, nothing was better.