.insomnia.
His silent screams are stopping her from sleeping.
Every night she'd wake up and sprint out of her white, white room with her sketchbook in tow and enter the room that the boy with the spiky brown hair slept soundlessly in his organically shaped pod. She'd stand and stare at him, her ice blue eyes sore and irritated and bloodshot from her lack of sleep for the past year. She wondered, though, why she was still alive even when the amount of countless sleepless nights would kill an average human being.
She guessed it was because she was a Nobody, generally meaning 'nothing' and in the dictionary it was described as 'non-existing' and 'unreal.' Being a Nobody had its advantages because of the theory of them never being able to die, but maybe they just fade into darkness like she had been told before by DiZ, the man in the cloak and the red headscarf that was wrapped around his head so tight that it looked like he could suffocate. She smiled bitterly at his remark and remained silence in subconscious fear that if she spoke her thoughts he'd strike her just like they used to do.
Again, she stood in front of his pod-shaped chamber and silently watched him, her eyes unblinking and emotionless. She learnt not to cry after all this time; if she cried they would laugh at her and strike her to the ground, calling her weakling a wimp and a witch. And that's all she was, really, a witch. Only two of the thirteen would ever lay a finger on her, while the remaining eight were oblivious or just didn't care. Their leader had no idea about what was happening in his own domain while the remaining two, best friends since they aligned the organization, were never within the Castle's area. She had her sketchbook hanging loosely in her palm as she proceeded to gaze at the brunet hovering in his prison.
Oh the joys of being a memory manipulator, she could re-adjust the settings to her liking because she could rewrite DiZ's minions' memories of the room while it was still being constructed. This time, in their memory, they left a chair out in front of the glass chamber so that the white witch can sit peacefully and watch her precious hero without being interrupted. Fix his memories she whispered to herself make it right. She sat in her usual white, white chair and opened her sketchbook. She stared at her previous sketches and touched them delicately with her pale, pale finger, being careful not to smudge them and obscure his memory even more.
Her drawings were vague and consisted mostly of colours than details. No one would be able to decipher who the people in her drawings were until they seen them, themselves. The Princess of Heart could be recognised because of her red, red hair and her sapphire coloured eyes. In the witch's picture, her red hair was a red, red scribble and her blue, blue eyes were two blue dots. This pattern was the same with every other person in the Key bearer's memories. She smiled faintly as her gaze lingered on the red haired girl, the princess, the person she could never be. Then, without a second glance, she turned the pages until the next one was anew and blank.
She looked up at him again and then started to scribble, until her hand was burnt from the friction between skin and paper and her scribbles formed into a full picture. Scribble, scribble, scribble, her hand had unnoticeably started to bleed under the pressure of the never-ending friction and her skin was becoming burnt and bruised and sore and cramped but she couldn't stop, she just couldn't stop until she finished the picture, until she finished completing his memories and reconstructing his broken heart. Her hands were hurting but she couldn't stop now, not while she was so close to fixing him and making him whole again. Then, finally, after hours and hours of drawing and sketching and scribbling and bruising and hurting and concentration, the graphite in her colouring pencil breaks. And for the first time since she was brought into this cruel, unforgiving world, she cried.