Artist
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Summary: She wasn't an artist, there was no doubt of that. She just needed to get them out somehow...
Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts, nor do I claim to own Kingdom Hearts or make any money off this.
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Yuffie remembers sitting at the kitchen table, pale wood glaring at her as the dining room light shown on the shiny surface. But her brows would be pushed together in concentration, her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth and eyes too centered on the paper to notice. Her crayon is clumsy, slipping and making lines where no line was supposed to be or wearing down in places and making her judge a line wrong.
Yuffie broke all her crayons by the second day and never touched a crayon again.
Its when she gets older and can write pretty clearly that she begins to draw with pencils. The figures are sticks, their heads circles and their limbs even smaller sticks. All the lines wobble and zigzag. She bursts into angry sobs of frustration the first time she really and truly tries to draw with it. It never turns out right, her sticks don't wobble anymore but the picture isn't right.
She regrets breaking all her crayons.
One day she finds paint, it's actually finger painting since she doesn't bother to do it with a brush. The paint begins to harden and stains her skin, but Yuffie is smiling. She is far too old to finger paint but she decides she likes it. Their faces don't turn out right and they look nothing like faces really, but that's the joy of finger painting. It didn't have to be right. Yuffie ignores her pencil in favor for the shiny acrylics and enamels, her fingers dyed blue.
Her mother shrieks and takes all the good paints away.
Eventually Yuffie gets her hands on some chalk, it feels fine, smooth and powdery against her fingers. Its all sorts of colors and stains her all over but is easy to remove. She tries again, and only on one of them do the eyes come out half right. But the chalk soon reminds her of crayons and when it gets to low her fingers scrape the pavement. Little rocks from the pavement make bumps in her knees and they ache. None of them have turned out even half right.
The next day Yuffie grinds half her chalk to dust and throws the rest in the pool, the water is turned the colors of the rainbow.
Not much older but still a little wiser Yuffie finds charcoal. It is dark against her fingers, smooth and sticky all at the same time. She covers herself and giant sheets of paper with it. Skin smudged with black as she works in the almost blinding light of the dining room, its pitch black outside. Her small still developing body hovers over the paper as she swipes the charcoal and makes their blurry figures come to life. It covers her in black and all the messy pictures line the walls of her bedroom, because their as close as she's gotten to them.
Their beautiful.
Its when she's fourteen and still lost in a world that is not her own that Yuffie finds the world of written word. Apparently she has a talent for it, always has. She's never thought of writing about them, describing the faces and people all jammed into her head. It's after a couple years of really mastering the this thing called 'writing' that Yuffie even attempts to write about them. Eventually pages turn into chapters, and chapters to parts, and then parts to a book.
It sells all over and the sequel is a bestseller to, even more popular then the first.
For the first time all the pressure and loneliness of having them all locked up in her head is gone, their still there but not driving her to the brink of sanity. For the first time she feels like the Yuffie she's supposed to be, even in the next life she'll be happy and go lucky.
She was Yuffie in this one wasn't she?
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The TV screen flickered, fuzz and static filling it one second to be replaced by a picture the next. Through all the pauses and flickers it is heard that the twenty eight year old author of one of the best selling series today was just found dead in her apartment.
He stares at the screen and flips through the book, the cover worn as his eyes flicker between the TV and the paper. Eventually the TV goes off with a little pop and the man stands up, placing the book in a shelf full of others like it.
"Organization XII must have finally realized who she truly was."
Leon goes to bed and waits for them to find him next, praying to God that next time him and Yuffie don't end up so alone. Perfect portraits of them all dominate his bedroom walls, their all drawn differently and with different utensils. Crayons, pencil, paint, chalk, and charcoal. A piece of paper with words typed full across the page is taped to the wall under each.
Smiling in charcoal lines with five pieces of paper taped under her picture Yuffie has her arms open and ready to embrace whoever her victim is.
Leon drifts off to a better world.
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A/N: Angsty Yuffie is freakin' stalking me.