I haven't written anything in about a year. Apologies if I am rusty. Written while listening to an acoustic solo version of "A Size Too Small" by Sufjan Stevens. I hope you enjoy it.
In her mind, Vriska touches his face; all smooth contours and soft gray. None of the sharp angles, like the cut of her chin; none of the rough skin like her calloused fingers. Every inch of Tavros exudes a pure unspoiled innocence, splattered with filthy brown blood. Every inch.
There is never enough time, she thinks. There is never enough time to grow into yourself, and her heart feels tight. There are emotions in there she's never let herself feel before. There is regret. There is fear. There is pain.
Mostly, there is love.
There is love trapped within dull blue confines, unable to break free and leave her. She is stuck with it. She is stuck with these things she does not want to feel.
In reality, she clutches her head, palms pressed tight to her eyelids beneath her glasses. She isn't holding back tears. She thinks herself incapable of it. She is pushing down the fear that's welling up inside her; the regret. She cared. She cares. She can't take it back now. The crippling was forgivable; the crippling was reversed. And in a way, to her, it was a blessing. Both crippled in their own ways. Physically, mentally, emotionally. It could have brought them closer together.
But he never saw it that way. He never would, and now he never will. He tried, at least, to overcome his deadly flaws. Always too late. There is never enough time to become who you are meant to be. Not this way. Not here. There will never be enough time to become herself.
So she presses on, blindly, with her eight-fold vision and her eighteen/eighteen hindsight, toward her inevitable future. She will die trying. And she will enjoy it. Because she loves this.
And she still owes him.