Author's Note: Sorry I haven't updated in a while!

Coloring The Void: Chapter 7

That afternoon, I'd decided to go to Grams and grab a couple weeks worth of clothes. After Mike had offered me the job, I felt like nothing could break my spirit, not even my family and their negative thinking. I giddily walked up the stone drive, having no intention of knocking on the door, or even making my presence known. This would be a quick visit, I thought as I pushed the key into the lock and twisted, quick and painless.

The minute I'd opened the door, I was hit with all the familiarities of Gram's. The house was freezing cold like always and I couldn't help my shivers. The change in temperature felt like a splash of ice water to the face and it was a sizzling summer day. Sarah and Grams loved to keep it cold and while I was living there, it seemed like I had a year round cough. The house was noisy as per usual; every TV was probably on, Gram's hated the silence, I'd never asked why.

My grandmother was the type of person who would be perfectly fine sitting in a room where a television, a radio, and a baby were all going off at the same time, her house was never quiet, sounds were always abuzz. It used to bother me when I was younger and my parents had just dropped Sarah and I off. My parents were very quiet people and were always so well ordered and even though I've always loved crazy old Grams and had fun living with her, I used to feel wrong for making so much noise... I'd never really known which rules I was supposed to be living by.

Years later, the noise still bothered me but not so much, I grew to handle it better. It was the only way to deal with the noise, Grams noticed a change in the pitch of her house the minute we'd turn a TV off or lower a radio. She'd march across the house, scolding us for shutting whatever it was off then return it to its normal volume. Grams especially hated it when we were silent and would shout to us from any room, even the bathroom, to have a long drawn out conversation with us about nothing.

That was one of the reasons why Grams and I never really got along. I knew her weakness, I knew she was scared of the quiet in a deep terrifying irrational sort of way but I didn't care when I was angry and used that knowledge to my advantage all the time. Nothing scared my Grandmother more than the silent treatment and even though we fought and she was so very disappointed in me, I knew she missed me. I knew she missed the sound of my voice.

My heart thudded as I crossed the living room floor and tiptoed up the steps. I heard my grandmother's shouting, she was in the kitchen, yelling out to Sarah, who was upstairs, probably in her room. My ears were re-adjust to all this noise and rang as I walked down the hallway to my room. I winced once I opened my bedroom door, dropping the duffel and covering my ears with my hands. An iPod was blasting in the room, probably acting as a trap to let someone know I was home.

"Damn,"I grunted, kicking the door shut, it was time to act and fast.

I quickly grabbed my duffle bag, dumping all the dirty clothes into my empty hamper, then rushed across the room to my dresser, pulling each draw open and grabbing handfuls of clothes, wildly stuffing them into the bag.

I'd almost finished filling the duffel when the door swung open, making a loud clattering bang against the wall. I glared over my shoulder, landing sight on the culprit and finding my lovely sister, Sarah, waltzing right in like the perfect little angel she was.

"Well, well, well," She grinned. I turned around, ignoring her, going back to filling up my bag. The music cut off and my ears could have cried out in relief, if they didn't feel so clogged.

"Picking up some more clothes, are we," Sarah twittered. I rolled my eyes. "Where have we been anyway?"

"Out," I muttered and zipped my bag up.

"I realize that," She chuckled. "For all these weeks?"

"Yup," I said simply and stood, scanning my room for anything else I could possibly need from this place.

"Grams has been looking for you," Sarah told me, aligning herself to stay in my vision as I looked around the room.

"Really," I drawled.

"Yeah," She sighed then gave up trying to make eye contact. "She has a bit of news to share with you."

Our eyes caught then; though we were sisters, you'd never be able to tell. Like our features, we were vastly different, and though we tended to get along, really well actually, it was a wonder we shared genes. Sarah was blonde and chipper, while my hair was brown and I've always been saucy. Sarah was good, she followed the rules, did great in school, went to an amazing college, while I of course, well I fell down the path I did.

"Like," I snarled.

She bit her lip, an old habit of hers and probably the only thing we shared in common. "It might sound better coming from her."

"GRAMS," I closed my eyes and shouted, my throat feeling coarse and not at all used to shouting. It felt so weird, I'd been so long since I'd had a conversation with my Grandmother.

"ELIZABETH," she screeched back. "HONEY, IS THAT YOU!"

"SARAH SAYS YOU HAVE NEWS FOR ME!"

"WHY YES, I DO HAVE QUIT A BIT OF NEWS," she hollered back. "BUT WHAT NEWS ARE YOU REFERRING TO SARAH, DEAR."

I looked to Sarah. "THE NEWS THAT YOU'RE KICKING HER OUT OF THE STUDIO!"

"WHAT," I cried. Sarah simply shrugged. I bolted past her and out the room, running down the hallway and down the stairs. My Grandmother was in the kitchen like I'd suspected.

The minute I saw her I was bellowing, "GRAMS!"

"Now, Elizabeth," She started calmly and turned to the pot that was cooking and poured salt into the vat of water.

"Stop mixing water and pretending like you actually know what you're doing in here, Grams," I jeered bitterly. "And tell me why you're kicking me out of my studio!"

"I'm boiling water for spaghetti, Lizzie," she replied haughtily. "It's hardly a potion."

"Tell me why," I growled and stamped a foot.

"Because I'm much too starved to wait for take out especially when Master Chan's has been–"

"GRAMS!"

It was the same old insufferable Grams. The one who infuriated me to no end, the one who wanted to see me put my life together but always had a hand in my downfall, this time, taking away my studio, like that was supposed to help me in any way. She didn't believe in me, I loved her and she didn't believe that I could have a bright future. It took so much begging and prodding for her to even let me rent that studio.

She hated when I painted in the house, swore up and down she couldn't stand the smell, then would lie down on the couch with a warm towel on her head, swearing I'd given her a headache. Sometimes she'd bust into my room, searching for drops of paint on the carpet or on a piece of furniture, and of course she'd find one then force me to halt production even if I'd had a great idea brewing. I had seen the ad for the studio in the newspaper when I'd turned fifteen and had begged her to let me rent it, but she shot me down, worried what I'd do with the unsupervised space. And she had remained firm on that decision until, one day, she'd walked into my room and had found one of my walls smeared with splatters of paint. I innocently contested that I'd missed the canvas and the next day me and my art supplies were in a brand new studio, one I wasn't ready to part with.

"Oh alright," she huffed and turned to me. "You know why, Lizzie," she rued. "Now tell me what pieces have you been working on lately? I visited your studio this afternoon, and all I saw were empty bottles everywhere and even emptier canvases! Now, if that's art, I'm not getting it."

"I'm searching for a muse," I cried. "I'm at the tip of painting something great, I feel it!"

"Well now that's excellent," She smiled and turned to check the pot. "And I'm so happy for you! But it you're going to paint something great, you'll paint it here."

"Where," I clipped, my fists clenching at my sides.

"Outside."

"What about in the winter?"

"Wear gloves," she said simply.

"I'll paint inside."

"Now Elizabeth," she warned. "You know I can't tolerate the smell."

"I'll be painting in the livingroom," I declared and turned on my heels, marching out of the kitchen.

"NO YOU WON'T," she cried hotly.

"IN FRONT OF THE TV," I hollered back and started climbing the stairs.

"WE ALREADY HAVE EDUCATIONAL PROGRAMMING HERE!"

"WHY WOULD YOU PAINT IN FRONT OF A TV," Sarah interjected into our spat.

"YOU CAN," Grams started but her voice fell lower as she grew closer, "paint upstairs when I run errands and open all the windows in the house. I mean it, all of them."

I turned on the steps and glared at her, suspiciously, realizing something. "The lease isn't up until February. Why can't I use the space until then?"

Grams sighed and dropped her eyes to the floor. "Because," she muttered. "I've given it to someone else."

I raised a brow. "And you know other starving artists from where?"

"Well," she sighed again. "I think Sarah's a little more well fed than you are."

"WHAT," I shouted for the second time in this visit, one that was meant to be oh so quick and painless.

"She eats my spaghetti," Grams expounded. "The portion size alone between the two of us–"

"Well that's just wonderful, Grams," I sneered. "Congratulations to you and Sarah," I applauded with a phony smile. My face dropped the second her eyes landed on me. "The both of you can give up on any idea of ever hearing from me again."

I turned and ran up the stairs, shoving past Sarah who was standing in the middle of the hallway, her face, for a conniving studio stealer, oddly filled with pain and remorse. I ran into my childhood room, picking up the duffel full of clothes and giving the room a quick final goodbye sweep.

I thundered back down the stairs, doing what I did best in this house, drowning all the sounds out, letting only the emotions in.

"Elizabeth Imogen Webber, Where do you think you are going," Grams called out sharply but the words were lost. I briskly walked down the drive and started down the sidewalk.

"Don't be stupid, Elizabeth," Sarah cried from the door. "She changed the locks! If you can't sleep in the studio, where are you going to go!"

But I heard nothing. I was fully enveloped in another world, another plane, where I was safe to let my heartbreaks seep in, where I was finally allowed to tear myself apart and leave nothing for others to find but the pieces.

I had nowhere to go, I sighed, as I took a seat on one of the wooden benches in the Port Charles Park. Night had fallen and I'd still yet to find a place to crash. Normally, if I'd been kicked out and my studio wasn't available for some reason or just wasn't a good idea, I would have gone to Emily's.

But Emily wasn't here! The screams had taken her and I needed to realize that and stop depending on her at times like this. I was alone now, it was a hard fact to swallow after being abandoned by Grams and Sarah, but it was my life now.

After leaving my Grandmother's, I had walked to Matt's, who really didn't live too far, so it wasn't much of a walk. I'd knocked on his door and his mother, Donna, had answered. Donna was the best, she was young with beautiful blonde hair and bright green eyes. She was one of those mothers that were around enough to know you were loved but not enough to know your deepest secrets. Donna liked me, very much, and was always encouraging me to go after Matt. But this afternoon, at her door, it seem that Donna didn't like me much, not anymore.

"Matt's not here," she snapped, the minute she had pulled the door open. My jaw dropped and my eyes widened.

"Oh," was all I was able to say before she was sneering again.

"He wanted to check himself into a rehabilitation center for thirty days," She spoke snidely. "Now, I never wanted to believe the rumors about you. But, it seems that they're true. So stay away from my kid! I mean it! I never want to see you here again."

And with that, the door slammed in my face. Even now I wasn't really sure if I'd fully recovered from that encounter. She'd been brutal and hateful, and hadn't even given me a chance to explain myself, and still I couldn't bring myself to hate her.

I'd always assumed that Donna had known about Matt's dealings, how could she not? He never hid them from her! And how was it possible for a mother to be so oblivious? Maybe that was why she always seemed so okay with everything we did, maybe she was wrapped up in her own life more than I thought and barely took notice of her own son.

I let out a long stream of pent up and irritated air then laid myself down on the park bench, stretching out, making it my bed for the evening. The park was poorly lit, branches creaked, crickets chirped, and owls hooted. I was terrified, stiffly, I laid on my side and shut my eyes, trying not to focus on the sounds of the night. I'd never imaged what it was like to have no home, leaves crumpled and I winced, I'd guessed I'd never let the thought enter into my mind.

Footsteps sounded, my eyes flew open and hastily I scrambled to sit up, my gaze wildly swinging.

"Hi," came a voice from behind me. I whirled around.

I stifled my scream as my eyes fell upon familiar trestles of long chocolate and honey infused hair, hair I'd seen in magazines, in commercials, on billboards whenever I went into the city. It couldn't be, I thought, but it was and there I was.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she hissed. "I didn't mean to wake you, but the park's really not the best place to sleep at night. If you want, I can give you the names of a few shelters where you can stay for the night."

"Thank you," I managed to say, my voice barely a whisper. "But I'm fine."

"You know," She advanced, moving daintily around the bench and taking a seat besides me. "There's not too many homeless people in Port Charles that I don't know," she held her hand out, "I'm Brenda."

"Liz." I bit my lip nervously and shook her hand, still wondering what she was doing here or if this was even real.

She smiled politely, a smile I'd seen too many times in magazines to believe it was sincere. "It doesn't seem you've been homeless for long."

"Just a couple of hours," I murmured, and dropped my gaze to my fiddling hands. A visit from Brenda Barrett wasn't exactly what I needed from the universe right then. Brenda was beautiful and rich and could have anything she wanted at the snap of a finger. She'd never slept on a bench a day in her life or even in an old crappy studio for that matter.

"You want to tell me what happened?"

"No."

"Ouch," she chuckled. "Short and sweet. I have a friend you should meet."

"You have a couple of friends I'd like to meet," I muttered. "Brad Pitt being one of them."

She grinned. "So you know who I am?"

"I do," I sighed. "Is it even safe for you to be wandering around Port Charles by yourself at night?"

"Sure. I don't see why it wouldn't be."

"Because," I sighed, rolling my eyes. "You're Brenda Barrett! You're a model and fabulous and beautiful and rich and all that other nonsense I'm always reading about. People probably get crazy around you."

"Why little miss," She grinned and nudged me with an elbow. "You have me pegged, don't you! My life sounds perfect," she chuckled. "But don't worry, I have a guard, he keeps a few paces back."

I turned and looked through the bushes but I didn't see anything, not even a silhouette of a man. I gulped, suddenly feeling all too unsafe with my choice of rest stop for the night.

Brenda eyed me peculiarly, pursing her lips, then whispered, "You wanna hear something the gossip magazines probably don't know yet?"

I looked back to her and sighed. "Let me guess, you're adopting a baby from Africa?"

"No!" She snorted but her laughter thinned before her smile did and her eyes grew bleak and I knew what she was about to tell me would hurt.

"I'm filing for divorce."

I still had no idea how famous international super model Brenda Barrett talked me into going back to her house with her. No, actually I had a pretty good idea how she did it, in fact, I hadn't really made it too hard.

She was surprisingly nice and completely different from what I'd expected. She was easy to talk to and though I'd just met her, I felt like I could call her a friend. The whole car ride to her house, she was nothing but warm and compassionate to my situation. She was a good person to offer me a place to stay, she didn't know me, had no idea if I was the type to steal, yet she was the second person that day, willing to take the risk on me.

The ride to her house wasn't long and she hadn't been lying when she said she had a guard following her. He followed us all the way up to her floor then deposited us in front of penthouse #2. Brenda took a while to find the key, chucking as she dumped the content of her purse on the floor. When she finally found it, she handed them to me, then went back to shoveling all the stuff into her purse.

I opened the door and switched the light on then awkwardly stepped inside and set my bag down by a bulky looking desk . Goose bumps prickled up my arm as I let my eyes wander. It was pretty bare, there definitely wasn't much to look at. I wondered if Brenda was still moving in or if her husband had gotten her into some financial problems or taken a lot with him when he left.

Her house was my Grandmother's worst nightmare; everything was so clean and so still and quiet. There wasn't much furniture in the room save the desk I'd set my bag by, a big lumpy brown couch, and a pool table.

I swivelled around and smiled politely at Brenda who was walking in. Though her house wasn't what I'd expected, I was still grateful she'd offered it to me.

"Nice place," I complimented.

Brenda frowned."Don't lie!'

"No," I cried, panic seeping in, I'd never been a good liar. "It's lovely! Much better than my studio!"

She shot me a queer glance then grinned. "This isn't my place. It's my friend's. I've just been living here since things fell apart."

I heaved. "Well, where's the furniture? Did they just move in?"

Brenda grinned. "No," She chuckled and walked across the room, disappearing through a doorway. "And I ask that question everyday! Ya hungry"

"No," I cried back.

"Don't lie to me!"

I grinned and walked over to the couch, sinking into a seat. "Is there food in an apartment with no furniture?"

"Shockingly," she chuckled, walking back in with two plates." Yes!"

She handed one to me, on it was a delicious deli-sliced sandwich and my stomach couldn't help itself, letting out a long vicious grumble. I blushed, I'd barely eaten anything all but the slim pickings of my bagel that morning at Kelly's.

Brenda sat besides me on the couch, then bounced up to grab the remote and clicked the TV on. I took a small bite of my sandwich, forcing myself not to inhale..

"It's leftovers from an event I had this morning," she told me. "Dig in."

And I watched as super model Brenda Barrett took one hell of a bite.

I grinned and did the same, still in disbelief at how relaxing being in her company was.

I was just about to take another bite when suddenly the door opened and my head reeled, my mind dividing into a state of shock. My eyes grew wide as they fell on him, my stomach lurching, all respiration ceasing. Why, my mind stammered to put together, had Jason Morgan walked into penthouse number two, as if... as if he owned the place.