Author's Notes: Another thing written for class. Har har. In Kairi's point of view.
Disclaimer: I don't own KH, Kairi, or Naminé. How depressing.
Self-Portrait
WhiteLightning
I never actually ever enjoyed drawing very much; it was never something I was very talented at. But after coming back to the islands, it felt as if all I wanted to do was draw. I couldn't understand it at the time, but I went to the store and purchased a sketchbook and drawing pencils, anyway.
Sitting out there, on our little island, I pulled them out, staring at the plain, blue cover of the book. Slowly, I ran my fingers over the edges, careful not to get a paper cut, and somehow felt, to some extent, nostalgic. Again, it made little sense—it's not like I had ever devoted any of my time to art, other than making thalassa shell necklaces. I opened it to the first page; it was fresh and mockingly white, as if its emptiness was actually laughing at me.
I closed my eyes, envisioning things I had seen, places I went, and people I met. My mind stopped, locking onto the girl I had met, with blonde hair and blue eyes, who had helped me when I was in trouble. Naminé, her name practically vibrated through my mind.
Taking a drawing pencil, I began to lightly sketch the imager of her face as I remembered it. Halfway done, I paused to get a better look at my work. I hated it. Sighing, I sipped the page out, crumpled it, and angrily tossed it to the ground.
If Naminé is such a great artist, I wondered, scowling, and she is part of me, then why am I so horrible? It was then that it hit me: if Naminé is a part of me, then it is her desire to draw that plagues me.
After that realization, I smiled. Once again, I placed the pencil to the paper. This time, it was no longer mocking, and it was no longer mine. I waited patiently for a moment, until, finally, I could almost feel her hand on mine, moving the pencil to form an image.
The imagine that formed on the paper—her image, the one she drew—was the same one I had tried to sketch earlier. My hand moved across the paper of its own—or, rather, Naminé's—accord. Once it was finished, my hand stopped, and I started down at the sketch. Beautifully done, just as I had expected; not even a hair was out of place. It looked exactly like her. Even more so, when I took the time to think about it, it looked like me.
We are, after all, the same person.
At the bottom, I titled it "Self-Portrait", and signed it for both of us.