Goddamit this story took forever to write. About two days to write the whole draft, a week and a half to edit, and two days to think of a bloody name. The name's not even that original. And this whole story is 975 words. Man, I wrote 'A Spark of Magic' in three hours and edited it in like two days and it's over four times the length of this story. I'm losing my touch.
The '~;~' isn't supposed to indicate that time's passed by the way (I would use '...' instead), or a major change in plot (then I use 'X'). It's really just a change in point of view, but there's no massive leap in time or anything like that. You probably won't care/notice, but just in case. Thanks for reading, and I hope you like it.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sisters Grimm.
A sea of grass ripples in the wind, and from a tree an orchestra of birds whistle Mozart. The sun is cheery bright, a pair of butterflies chase each other, and the breeze that swirls around is both warm and gentle.
It's a beautiful place, really.
Or at least, it would be, if it wasn't for the girl standing mere metres away, crying her eyes out as if that'll make everything better.
~;~
Everything inside her aches, aches with this queer unceasing sort of pain. The pain that doesn't wound so much as it disarms, so much as it creeps into every crevice of her body and makes everything work not right. It's like there's a... it's like there's a rock, a cold sort of ice-rock, which is pressing into her vital organs, and hot venom's dripping off it.
Granite dust lines her lungs... Her throat clenches, so now every breath is clogged and thick and difficult to take ...and her poisoned lungs struggle for oxygen.
Rock fragments surge forward with every heartbeat... The sledgehammer behind her ribs thumps, jackhammer-like, this cruel reminder that she's here and he's there ...and veins rip.
The boulder that protrudes against her heart leaves its impression as bruises... She draws breath, she hears lub-dub, and the organ that pumps blood twists in on itself ...'til there is nothing but a mess of blue-black and grey.
With every tear that escapes unwillingly from her eyes, the rock trembles. With every drop that falls from blue irises to green grass, the rock swells. Swells in size like some demonic monster, so that every breath she draws in grows thicker, every vein which contains blood tears faster, and her heart hurts as if some devil were crouching atop it. It swells until it fills her whole body, looming like a spectre at the back of her eyes.
Now, all she can see is this rock, this cold slab of unforgiving grey, with that horrible inscription carved on it: Here lies-
"Grimm."
The sound of her name snaps her from this trance, and from the corner of her eye she sees someone move towards her. A clap of distant thunder sounds; the sprinkle of raindrops that follows is accompanied by a warm arm curling around her shoulders.
"It's time to go," Puck says.
She shakes her head. "No," she whispers.
A sigh. "Grimm, you've been here for a whole hour. It's time to go."
"I said no."
He looks at her for a second, then turns away and runs a hand through his hair. "Ten more minutes then. Then, I'm flying you home."
"Fine."
They gaze forlornly at the tombstone for a couple minutes, and even though she hides her face with her hair, Puck can feel her shoulders shake. Please stop, he begs silently.
"I'll buy you a cupcake on the way back," he says, in a desperate attempt to distract her.
She doesn't reply.
"What flavour do you want?"
Silence.
"Do you want blueberry? Or chocolate? I heard The Baker makes great-"
"Please stop talking," she says quietly.
He stops talking.
The minutes slide past, torturously slow, like they're embedded in treacle, or rock.
When he finally glances over — after God knows how long — he flinches.
Because there's some kind of transformation going on in the girl beside him, some kind of terrifying transformation, which makes his arm withdraw. It's betrayed in the tense lines of her body, the animalistic snarl which draws itself across her face, the gleam of fire in those ice-blue eyes. In that moment she is like a glass figure, hard and sharp and see-through, and he knows what's coming and-
"I can't fucking believe you!" she screams at the rock, as Mr Hyde roars to life, "I thought you were smarter than that, Bradley! I told you I would be fine, I told you I could take care of myself, but you had to play the hero didn't you?! You had to go out and fight, even though I'm Everafter and you're not, and now look at you!"
Her fury possesses her, and for one moment she is not Sabrina Grimm but some kind of demon, some kind of angry, grieving demon. She lashes out at everything, as guttural insults erupt from her mouth, as angry tears fall like venom from her eyes. The rock swells, and emotion overcomes her again.
Somewhere during her rampage she vaguely registers a body pressed up against her, and warm arms holding her. Through the roar of blood in her ears she hears a quiet whispering, deep and cracked, like indistinct murmurs. Her vision is clouded over, black and red swirled up in her eyes as monsters control her, but somewhere in that seething mass she sees a bright pinprick of light, green or yellow or something.
A patch of daisies brush against her legs. A symphony of crickets chirp Beethoven. When she emerges from her state, it's to find herself wrapped up by Puck, as he holds her like she's going to fall apart. Her shouts lapse off into silence. His closed eyes open.
"We're leaving," he says.
"No," she whispers. She tries to muster up her fury again, tries to command this fairy to let her stay, but all she can feel is this hollow emptiness again, and all she can do is whisper.
"Yes, we are."
"I want to stay."
"We're going."
"Please..."
But he just turns away from her heartbroken face, and out pops his wings and they're flying. By the time she finds her voice again they're back at home, and the front door is locked behind her.
She just wants to be there with him, with her dead husband, is that too much to ask?
...
She just wants to be there so she can keep part of him alive.
Man, this is still so much easier to write than 'It's a date' though. Right up my alley. This feels like a sibling story to 'Grieving', doesn't it? Similar name and plot. I actually only noticed that after I finished writing it, and by then I couldn't be bothered changing it. So think they're connected if you want, but it wasn't intended to be. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it.