Title: white snow
Summary: They're all connected, whether they like it or not. Nine against the world. / Memories plague her, each moment relived over and over, a cracked and overplayed record.
Warning/Spoiler: Cursing.
Rating: M
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Nina, Fabian/Nina
Author's Note: I've written three of these so far, and this one's definitely the shortest. But it's also the only one with dialogue. In any case, I'm writing again. Even if it's fic, it's written words, so yay. But generally, this is a collection of unrelated unless noted snippets, whether canon-compliant missing scenes or AU what-ifs.
white snow
Drip.
The water trickles down the dirt-caked walls until it reaches the rotting wooden floors, a puddle of gunk and water and old. The cold liquid stains her spine, shivers running down her limbs and skin and bones. Her numb hands stay frozen, crushed between weak thighs and loose floorboards, but she doesn't dare try to move them.
Her eyes stare lifelessly. Her eyes send signals of simplicity – an ancient attic, filled with adventures and mysteries and untold stories. But her mind dreams of Fabian-touches, Amber-wit, Patricia-sarcasm, Alfie-laughs, Mick-questions, Jerome-schemes, Mara-plans. Her mind witnesses the ebb and flow of group dynamics – the clashing personalities, the fitting puzzle-pieces, the joined hearts. Memories plague her, each moment relived over and over, a cracked and overplayed record. Each scene haunts her – my fault, all my fucking fault.
Nina's not one to curse – but she's a fucking teenager and her friends are fucking gone so she'll damn well curse the fucking world. There's nothing left but her, the house, and the bitter necklace, haunting and teasing.
She wishes Victor could come back. She wishes Trudy hadn't left. She wishes she'd stayed in America – but as the final wish crosses her mind, she knows she's overacting.
Nina Martin doesn't do regrets.
She once told Fabian – midnight escapades, stolen grazes, shared looks, longed-for kisses – that she was risk-taker. Her heart aches, but her brain whirls – I'm wallowing. And when she pictures girls with ice-cream and chick-flicks and tears, her blood boils. When hand meets wall, her active hand is no longer numbed and the wall bears a permanent hole, another scar added to a long list of damages. Gears turn, images float past like a slideshow, but no tangible course of action appears. Wisps of possibilities, smokes of what-ifs, tease the edges of consciousness, but Nina's clueless.
The red and cut fist rests on the ground again, and her eyes land on the ceiling.
You told me once what I needed to find. What do I need to do now?
The House replies quietly and firmly. The unfamiliar curl of the corners of her lips transpires hope, white snow in a background of darkness.