Colors Of The Wind, a victorious fanfic

an; this version of colors of the wind is vanessa william's version.

Her mom suggests she go to therapy.

Her mother thinks she's crazy, she knows. Everyone does, she knows that too. But she isn't—seriously. Yeah, so what that all of her stuffed animals talk to her? So what that every single cloud in the sky is a distinct shape? So what that, sometimes, her hands shake so hard she can't even hold anything and has to smile and pretend everything's okay? She's fine with her life being like this, it's constant; it's every day and it's all the time and it's always the same—she doesn't like change. Change really messes with her head; it takes her way to long to get used to things.

Like when her dad left. She spent months and months being stupidly hopeful and bright that he was going to come home. After she would walk home from elementary school, she would burst through her front door, happily singing Colors of the Wind at the top of her lungs. She would rush over to the kitchen where her mother was making her and her brother Jace a snack, peck her on the cheek, and say "When's daddy comin' home, mama?"

Her mother would stop what she was doing and look at Cat with sad eyes. Cat knew when she asked this it was hurting her mom—she loved her husband very much—but she had said several times that she had no reason to be sad. Her dad was coming back. He was just on some unannounced, unexpected business trip; her dad would never leave them like that. There was some part in Cat—a very small part—that knew her dad was gone forever, but she was Cat Valentine; she was relentlessly happy, all the time.

"Your daddy isn't coming back, baby. I'm sorry," her mother would say.

And every time she did Cat felt like she was punched in the gut. She was a twelve-year-old girl, her dad wasn't supposed to just up and leave her like that. So she just smiled and flipped her chocolate brown hair. "Don't be, he's coming back."

But after a while, she knew. One day, when she came home, she wasn't singing Colors of the Wind. She didn't burst through the door. She didn't walk home—she dragged her feet so much she was surprised her shoes weren't rubbed off. That day, she knew. It had been a horrible day, and she was Cat; she didn't get those, ever. So she just shut her mouth for the rest of the day, she figured her mom needed a rest from her constant yapping, as Jace would always so lovingly put it.

But, back to the present, she doesn't need therapy. She doesn't. She rocks her head back and forth.

"Cat, I think you need this. I've been noticing—"

"I think maybe you should stop right there." Cat says, anger bubbling up inside her like water. That's another thing about her—everything she feels, she feels to the extreme. Right now, she feels as if her skin is literally on fire. Her eyes are burning and her lips are so dry and her throat feel like it's closing. But she has to go on; she isn't finished. "You haven't noticed anything. You haven't been around, so what are you supposedly 'noticing', Mom? Hmm?"

Her mother's eyes are wide with surprise. Probably at how Cat can sound so mean with her voice still high-pitched like it usual. She opens her mouth, and then closes it, searching for words—any words—to say at the moment. "I-I—"

"Exactly—nothing. So no, thank you, I do not need therapy. You're wrong," Cat says, gritting her teeth and fisting her red hair by the sides of her head. She gets up and stomps of to her pink room, suddenly just wanting to trash and throw everything and anything she can get her hands on. Instead, figuring she would regret it later, crawls into her pinkpinkpink bed and cries herself to sleep.

She wakes up the next day, Saturday, with still-wet lashes. She peels the covers off of her and walks to her bureau, looking at herself in the mirror. Her hair is bright red, the color of red velvet cupcakes. Her eyes are a sparkly, chocolate brown. She moves down to her cute button nose and her pink lips.

Does her mom want Cat to go to therapy because she's ugly?

Cat isn't insecure; she knows she's pretty. She's not full of herself, though. She just knows she has this natural kind of pretty that doesn't require much make-up; a little eye liner, mascara, some blush and she's good to go. (deep down, she's sososo insecure).

But maybe her mother doesn't think so.

All of a sudden she wants to impress her. She wants to show her mom she's beautiful and doesn't have to go to therapy. At this moment, Cat would do anything, even dye her beloved hair. It really isn't normal, wanting to change so badly just because of her wacked out imagination. She knows it's weird, but isn't that… Cat? Her imagination has gotten her into plenty of trouble before, this is not an exception.

Cat has to look her best today. She picks out her sparkly silver top she wore when singing Give It Up with Jade, her black cuffed jeans, and her glittery silver pumps even though she's not going anywhere. A tiny bit of liquid liner (her mom doesn't like heavy make-up), mascara, no blush, and she thinks she's almost perfect. Almost. She spins around and grabs her silver tiara, knowing she glows with it on. Just like a princess.

She tries to skip into the kitchen but then stumbles, so she thinks walking is better. She smiles lightly, watching her mom sway to music she's playing. Cat furrows her brows; she doesn't recognize it. Her mom always listens to Colors of the Wind.

"What happened to Colors of the Wind?" Cat asks. Her mother jumps slightly, her hand covering her heart. She smiles sweetly.

"I usually leave that for you to sing, honey. You're so much better than who's really singing." She says. Dropping a kiss on Cat's forehead, she puts a plate of French toast in front of her.

"Vanessa Williams," Cat supplies happily. She takes one whiff and pushes her plate away, definitely not in the mood to eat. "Hey, mom? Do you think I'm pretty?" her voice trembles. If her mom says no… Cat doesn't know how she'll take it.

"Of course, baby, you're beautiful. Why do you ask?" she asks. But Cat just shakes her head and announces she's going for walk. Her mom may have said she was pretty, but she saw in her eyes that she didn't mean it. It's probably worry. No, it isn't. Her mom thinks she's ugly and Cat doesn't think there's anything she can do about it.

She's sitting at a random swing, in the woods behind a random park.

She stares down at her bare feet. She abandoned her pumps a long time ago. She frowns because she really likes those, but she's sure she'll find them again, if she can remember how to get here ever again. Cat yanks the tiara out of her hair, and breaks the stupid piece of stupid plastic in half. It was supposed to make her feel special, like a princess, give her luck. The only thing it did was make her did. So much for being special.

She thought that would make her happy. It didn't. The only thing that did was make her sadder because now she regrets breaking it.

Taking in a shaky breath, she starts to sing.

You think you own whatever land you land on

The earth is just a dead thing you can claim

But I know every rock and tree and creature

Has a life, has a spirit, has a name

She bows her head and starts to cry. The tears make her cheeks slick, her lips salty.

You think the only people who are people

Are the people who look and think like you

But if you walk the footsteps of a stranger

You'll learn things you never knew you never knew

She chokes on the words, has a hard time trying to get them out. But she remembers everyone's words, "Singing is important, Cat. If you want it to be your career, you have to take it seriously." And is determined.

Have you ever heard the wolf cry to blue corn moon?

Or asked the grinning bob cat why he grins?

Can you sing with all the voices of the mountain?

Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?

Sucking in a breath, she clutches a hand to her mouth. She can't do it—she can't. She's crying too much. Every single bad thing anyone has said to her is running through her mind, her ears. It's making her insane. She already knows she's ugly, or she's fat, or her high pitched voice is so annoying it makes you want to stick pins in your ears. Trust her, she knows all of it. She hears it every day, in the back of her mind. Every time she tries to do something—anything—right, it whispers.

Wiping at her eyes, she tries to sing a few more lines.

Come run the hidden pine trails of the forest

Come taste the sun-sweet berries of the earth

Come roll in all the riches all around you

And for once, never wonder what they're worth

She buries her face in her hands. Now she's stopping because she sounds—

"Hey, was that you singing?"

Cat snaps her head to voice. It's coming from a girl, looks about 20, with blonde hair and blue eyes. She's tall and she's lean and Cat is so jealous of her because she's always wanted to look like that (perfect). She clears her throat. "Yes, that was me," she says.

"Wow, you're good." She says, her eyebrows raised and a wide smile on her face. "I'm Katrina,"

Cat shakes her outstretched hand, smiling (her smile is infectious). She giggles a little, the sound being foreign to her ears, and tucks her hair behind her ear. "I'm Cat. And thank you, for telling me I sing well, it was nice!" Cat exclaims, clapping a little.

Katrina laughs, "Why do you seem so surprised?"

"People are mean," she pouts. "But some people are nice! Like my friends! There's Beck, and Jade—well, Jade's not nice to everyone, but she is to me—a-and there's Robbie, though Rex is mean, and oh! Andre! He's the nicest." She blushes a little, realizing she got into one of her rambling sessions.

But, Katrina is really nice, and she only smiles. "Well, they seem really nice. And don't listen to people who try to put you down. Chances are, they're just dicks." She says, squinting her eyes at the sun. "I gotta get going, but uh, I like your hair. You're very pretty. And don't quit until you win, got it, Cat?" she smiles. Katrina nods her head a little and walks off with a tiny wave.

Cat smiles, newfound confidence warming her insides. No one has ever complimented her the way Katrina just did and she's astounded. She wipes her eyes of the last of her tears and takes a big breath.

The rainstorm and the river are my brothers

The heron and the otter are my friends

And we are all connected to each other,

In a circle, in a hoop that never ends

Have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon

Or let the eagle tell you where he's been

Can you sing with all the voices of the mountain

Can you paint with all the colors of the wind

How high does the sycamore grow

If you cut it down, then you'll never know

And you'll never hear the wolf cry to blue corn moon

For whether we are white or copper-skinned

We need to sing with all the voices of the mountain

Need to paint with all the colors of the wind

You can own the earth and still

All you'll own is earth until

You can paint with all the colors of the wind

I DON'T OWN VICTORIOUS.

an; thanks if you read. story really has no point. sorry if you hated it. review if you want, - skylar xxx