A/n: Hye! Ren here! This is my first fanfic for Ib... Tada! Here have all the angst that I have brutally thought up for Ib. This happens after Promise of Reunion, btw...Please read and I hope you all will like it *bows*

Ib: A Travelling Gallery

~Life's a travelling gallery, as fragile, as fine. Your mind moving and growing every time… and when you finally grasp its meaning, life's run is over, you close and you die.~ by Unknown::

Life has no meaning.

Since five years ago (not exactly… maybe four and ten months), I realised this. As the blue fleeting sky loomed above me day by day. Periodically, I would crane my neck and stare… I saw nothing. There were soft, fluffy clouds as a young girl would see them. And loads of solemn blue patches here and there too. But no matter how I purposely would try to miss it, it remained. The nothing just stood there, staring back. Nothing in the Sky.

I wonder if that's why I came up with the conclusion of life's empty significance. Maybe not exactly because of the sky I sometimes watched when I was ten. Maybe the events that brought me here today, that caused my mind to spiral and watch those peripheral blue skies.

Today, or recently, these days, father, mother and daughter sit in silence. Our candid positions while spending the perishable minutes, eating lunch can paint a pretty picture. And if I think a little bit and add creativity at one side and the other, this picture could be painted into my masterpiece. Quiet Masterpiece, Dining.

A sizzling tension hissed through the air between my parents as I eat my share of potatoes. Whatever happened between them, I silence myself, unable to interfere… like I cannot disturb a picture in the gallery. They wouldn't allow me to anyway so I eat and wonder. Wonder of my parents, of blue skies, of intertwining roses…and finally, of him as my mind had tendency to do…

Him… that tall, permissive guy, nine years older but as naïve as I. Sigh, I really should get my thoughts straight. Concentrate on eating, I whisper to myself as I was prone of doing. And stop twiddling with the fork (!) Blowing the heat off my spoonful of mash, I eat and chew on something hard. I let it play in my mouth a second, rolling it mindlessly with my tongue. Soon, all thoughts of him vanished in a poof of imaginable smoke, blending into the roundish solid taste of rust…. Metallic. It tasted of rustic metal.

A coin… I gasp. What was it doing here?

Galette des Rois …. Whoever gets the coin and happiness be upon him.

Beat..

Red paint, all over a crayon girl.

"What's wrong, Ib?" Mama broke her silence, unsizzling the tension only slightly. "Oh, you discovered my valuable secret trinket…. It's part of my next project. A Ga –"

"Galette des Rois," I whisper, covering up the fear untangling in memories and tongue with a strangled smile.

"Ib, that's my darling. A galette des rois… my new flawless delicacy for a special event. Well, I've read it up and couldn't resist trying it but I was unsure of the coin thing…. 'Afraid the metal taste would mix up the batter's. Your potato's fine, right Ib? I tried it myself but another's opinion is much recognised."

I nod, ceasing Mama's banter. Yes, they were fine… until the coin. Papa smiles, "You know, Ib. Whoever gets the coin, may an immense happiness be granted on her."

Papa actually continued Mama's conversation. Well, luck and happiness certainly seems to be beginning to unravel towards my side of existence today. But, still…

I eat till the last stain on my plate. Blank Platter.

"Ib, you done?" I caught Papa's begrudging look towards Mama, begging eyes turned to me with his next sentence. "No seconds?"

I shake my head. Slowly. If I was faster, the tension I was so afraid of may fizzle provocatively, twice to scare me first with the suspense, stop suddenly and then, dramatically spin so fast it will explode. Kabaam! like that. My conscience wish she could make me say something… anything to stop the twisting colossal of fate and human emotions spiralling like planets through the spatial tension of my parents…. Anything.

Stop my head from shaking, that silent reply saying, 'No, thanks. No seconds for me.' Force my lips wide apart. No turning back. Mama, Papa already looking my way. Scream…. No louder! Scream it all out!

'STOP FIGHTING! Idiots…' I'll say. 'If you want to say something, shout it in front of me. If you want to fight, do it now! Not behind my back! Not in your bedroom when you think I don't hear…. Not… not when I leave…'

But I smile and the words were left italicised in dust in my head, whispering out instead. "Famished," which was half-true as I touch the cloth on top my stomach for effect. "Anyways, I have to go."

Cautious not to stir the reappearing tension, I slide my chair. Slowly. And remember, that is most important. Slowly, I slip halfway through the dining room, counting my precious steps until my feet extends to the safe threshold, slightly further from the origin of my parents' pernicious mix of wild emotions… the origin? Themselves and their reluctant co-existence.

One more step and I'll be out.

"Ib…" a white flash and a younger me sent her gaze towards her more youthful Mama who also called her, dragging the 'I' and stopping sharply with the 'b' so it was a long 'Iiiiiiiib' instead of 'Ib'. Every time she drags this short name of mine, without fail, a nervous surge of guilt will run through me even though any blameworthy act I have committed is next to none at the moment and I hope to the holy power of God that I was in no trouble as at that time, nothing was scarier than Mama's wrath. Of course, that was before that faithful day when I was nine…

Presently, I turned to, hoping again for no trouble. "Take the coin," my expression blanked. No, I can't believe it. "You don't want to run out on your well-earned luck. It's a good thing you didn't swallow it…although it's small enough to not harm you anyways "

You swallowed the coin. You're so lucky. Don't worry, it's small.

Red paint, all over a crayon girl.

My eyes dropped to the table where I, with all deliberate purpose, had left the coin. Five cents, silver amongst the decent, white tablecloth. I stared at the coin. And all of its five cents stared shamelessly back.

What else can I do? I soften the edges of my lips into that magnificent fake smile I had so flawlessly developed throughout my years. Yes, the false grin of the gentle girl in all those stories, ballads… ever since forever, or if I don't exaggerate, ever since I saw the Nothing, I have perfected the illusive lie on lips. And I stroke the cool brown mahogany underneath the tablecloth as well, feeling every curve and curled crevice along the way, lengthening the moments my fingers reach the much cooler metal coin.

"Luck?" I say sceptically. "I believe it's the people who bring the luck not the ornamental coin. If everyone's nicer to each other, I'm sure I feel much luckier," I whisper. In reply, the coin glimmered in between the tips of fingers.

My smile cracked slightly, real and sarcastic. One last look and I bid farewell. Gone before Mama can request me to 'Speak louder, honey.' Gone before Papa can glance from his plate to my scarlet eyes I share with Mama.

"Your parents? Ah, I see the resemblance. You have your mother's eyes. How peculiar?"

"?"
"Haha… nothing really. It's just I've never seen anyone with your red eyes before and here I am, in the most unexpected of places, and I already know two lovely red-eyed maidens. Hmmm… maybe I should get out more often."

There and then, her heart finally decelerated in her chest. Was it his ever-so-comforting random talk, laced with his soft, kind voice…. Or was it the relaxing flush of relief after all the running? 'Creak', there was a sound. Jumpy as she was, she trembled and accidentally maybe, caught his hand, sucking in the comfort another's pulses gave, a small sign of company in the darkness. Nothing, probably nothing. An unnecessary piece of colourless imagination reserved only for little girls, unheard by the man…. Young children should not play in the realm and reserves of dark unknown for black things have tendril tendencies to slender into little minds. Wild imaginations are where they could grow the greatest, after all. She gripped harder….however small it was… at least, his warmth, his pulses were hers to share. Relishing her realised need, she consumed the heat divided between them but really was hers to greedily engulf. She was child… and that fact meant she deserved it. A shard of bravery in exchange of warmth…

The gruesome darkness piled up into a giant terrifying knoll smack in the middle, taunted and poked at her, urging her to play so she can slip and fall in the pleasantless malaise of flickering corridor lights outside. She scanned all four corners, keeping her eyes away from the bloodied sofa middle… some shelves filled with big books a nine-year-old could hardly understand, and easel and canvas watching the painter's stool… and a clear, unrevealing window. Nothing reassured her… all felt unsafe…

… but she turned and saw a young man with one hiding eye and a ragged coat… and fate the same as hers. Just then, she knew. They will go through everything together…. The hungry shadows may shift left then, right, blue and red petals may fall, paintings burn you ashes to ashes, ominous eyes follow… but as long as their hands rest in each other's, they were safe… brother and sister through everything…

Meeting his unhidden eye for the first time, she shared her own warmth. He did not expect it, of course but she pointed up to his hair. No one of her little familiarity group had a purple head.

In the darkness, two acquainted strangers laughed.

Mist accumulated in the front of my mouth as exhalation escaped me. The cold altered the atmosphere around so the garden her parents (read: employed gardener) pruned looked vividly lurid. A glossy gleam buttered the leaves of trees and grass, the gleam achieved from the dew transcending from those skies. The 'after-rain', it smelled dank and musky but unusually nice despite the damp, cold adjectives such atmospheres are usually accompanied with. Before my hand even teetered, the lush wind manipulated my scarf expertly, hiding the immature red ribbon –that matches my eyes –around my neck with its luxurious crimsonised wool cloth. My fingers clenched, grabbing the soft texture of my scarf as much as possible, allowing cool breath out of me again to help me bear with the crystal cool. Passing through my fingers and scarf this time, the mist swirled distortedly, forming clouds that blend and shiver with the secrets in the air. Misty Secrets Held.

Speaking of clouds, I look up. As expected... greyish-blue smears of God's paint, the last of the rains dropping into my eyes… I blink… birds chirping begging for son, aforementioned clouds dispersing from its giant forms and swirling… swirling like sweet white candy floss in a carnival… and there it was, again… the Nothing, shamelessly staring back at me as a certain coin would…

Behind me, the door pleaded for company… or at least, something to saviour it from the escalating tension it concealed inside the confines of the home. I'm sorry, door…. My conscience whispered and wandered of the two beings inside.

Sigh.

And I walked away, further and further until I could hear no door's pleading any longer. Doors had always had that protective element within its tough fibrous core while I always left soon after they closed on the danger. One day, I believe, karma was going to wrench me forcefully by the shoulders, break all the doors and force poor old me to face the danger myself…. One day. Hopefully not today. Or any other day I'm conscious.

Why am I so down today? For absolutely no reason too, except maybe for waking up on the wrong side of my overly-princessy bed. Maybe the events, the events that led up to today… for some reason, all these torrential emotions decided today to sting like an insult. A girl dissolving her full attention on the minute gravel of the pavement below…. How much more down can you get? My Princess's Pavement, View.

Down… until something red glistened in the new after-rain sun… like the red ruby eyes of his beloved. Its dying fragrance inched into me while I stare –I've been doing a lot of staring lately –at the elegant flower queen, with its fallen petals forming a mournful circle of death around it…. A queen to me, at least.

The same street. Some kids from the poorer parts giggled and bounced in a mix of glee and childish mischief. Finished watching them, I turn to where their eyes kept darting toward, their source of mirth and saw Mrs Asch, who gardened in her free time since she retired, moving her mouth and blinking those elderly eyes furiously. I realised more than one flower had met their demise at the hands of naughty children. They were expensive. Of course, the natural thing was to be mad and hurry the misfits up into the streets, out of her once-splendidly ample manicured lawn.

As usual, no one notices me… even when I crouch down into a small fourteen-year-old ball on the pavement. The flower grants me one finishing tired pink flush of fragrance to its –what it believes to be –last, current beholder. I desperately pick it up. Roses have thorns, they say… careful… carefully, I pick the dying rose, then its petals from its resting place of peace.

My red rose…. How I miss you? How will I forget you? Your enigmatic but dying form is entwined to me by something dark, the infamous incident which guarded my life throughout. With uncertainty. With insecurity. Regret. Guilt. Friendship. Love? Lachrymose?

And that is my reason. You cover me with detail and I connect with you as well. I am your introducing prologue… and you…you are the later chapters covering our tail in particulars until we meet again in the middle. That is why I raise you from your pavement grave and rest you in my skirt pocket, the red petals cushioning you inside.

Because the significance in my life I thought I've lost, you have it.

Life does have its meaning. Life is a beautiful red rose. As petals play their part in resembling my soul, as petals spiral theatrically to the ground, you realise how commonly exploited is your rose, no one sees its fragility until the last petal, when most external beauty is lost. I can just leave the rose to its death, step on it a bit, crush it under my shoe and make it hurt for the satisfaction of my life's innumerable frustrations… but I did otherwise. Why?

This is my rose, however fragile.

Embodiment of Spirit.

-my prologue has ended in a treacherous flowing path of crayon red roses. May they forever follow me in my path through the chapters as I finally have that destined meet at the middle with the ersatz colours of blue and yellow. May we meet again, no matter what tumbles in our rose-covered path-

Half Sad A/n: Did you like it? So if possible, plz review, fav and etc. because I would really like to know what you guyz think. Now for the sad part: This is kinda the only chapter I have written currently and since Ib is not my current fandom...although it is still one of my fav games (~*aside whisper*I love you Garry~)... I wouldn't be continuing it loyally eventhough I kinda plan it to be a multiple chapter story. I'm not really loyal in any of my fanworks so yeah. :(

Ps; I actually had this story for a long time now and one of the reasons I'm posting this is because it had been so long since I posted a story for the world to read and that kinda gave me a deprived feeling. I wish I could continue this but I have sooo many other ideas which are newer in my mind and only 2 months worth of holiday...:'( sorry for the meaningless ranting

But feedback is still appreciated and thanx in advance! It will really help in my writing. No flames though...I get overly depressed in the presence of flames. Arigatou! Ja mata! And peace out *does peace sign*!