There were voices and people always talking while Arya's mind floated away from her body. She was in the forest, throwing her knife into a tree, cuddled into Gendry's side and looking at the stars, perched on a stool and watching her father work in the garage. Sometimes, someone would hold her hand or place their hand on her shoulder and still her mind wandered to the rides in Jon's convertible with her hair whipping her cheeks, Robb pinning his youngest sister to the carpet and tickling her until she cried for mercy and the endless depth of her mother's blue eyes.
Rickon slept in Arya's bed, curled up into her side, at night. Osha became a permanent fixture, the only comforting stranger that Arya chose to interact with on a regular basis. Completely unassuming, Bran's physical therapist became the caretaker to the remaining Stark children. Arya made the unfortunate phone call to Sansa the night of the accident and reassured her older sister that it was okay to return to school after the funeral…no, the funerals. The younger girl had tried to figure out what kept her sister away, how Sansa could basically abandon her and the boys, but then reasoned that they had Osha to help and Sansa probably needed to be far away from everything that the redhead thought was dreadful. At least the now eldest Stark had Sandor; Arya had no one and felt herself slipping into the thought of becoming no one to everyone.
The flicker of hope that Jon would be able to return, even for a day for the funerals, was met with a cold and concise denial from the local enlistment officer after he had viewed Jon's records and scoffed that personnel were only released for a death of an immediate family member. "But Robb was his brother," Arya seethed at the heartless man, her brain momentarily contemplating the little needle at her ankle.
"Not according to our paperwork and our paperwork is official," the callous officer replied. When Arya questioned what he meant, the man reiterated that the paperwork did not list either Robb or Caitlyn as immediate family members, therefore, Jon could not be granted leave.
"I have no one," she choked out, before she could stop herself. Surely, he could see from the computer file that their father was also dead.
Uncaring eyes turned sympathetic towards the gray-eyed teenager. "I am truly sorry for your loss, but I can't do anything for you. I can't even tell you, legally, that he is stationed where they have a communications black out at this time, that he is okay and cannot find out this news for another two months." Arya listened and accepted the tissue the officer extended, grateful for the information that the officer dared protocol to breach. Although she left the office knowing Jon would not be coming home, the thankful girl was content to know that he was alright, wherever he was stationed. That tidbit of knowledge kept the blackness of her soul at bay.
Arya had never known her grandparents, who had died long before she was born, along with her Aunt Lyanna. Three days after the crash that claimed her nephew and sister, Lysa arrived, dragging her sickly son, Robert, behind her wherever she went. What few relatives were alive hadn't been to the Stark house in years, other than for Ned's funeral, so when her mother's sister arrived, weeping with "heart palpitations," Arya immediately wished to be left alone again. Rickon clung to his sister's arm and locked himself in her room after their aunt chastised him for not playing with his cousin, something that did not endear the older intruder to the young wolf. It was easy to be no one to Lysa and Robert, distant and removed.
In fact, Arya found it so convenient to be no one that she rather preferred it. She would stare off into the distance as someone spoke about funeral details, hearing the words and not feeling the weight of them. The further the girl slipped into apathy, the less pain ruled her decisions and thoughts. But at night, as Rickon pushed himself into her ribcage and she rested her arm across his growing shoulders, Arya realized how truly deserted she felt and the chasm of loneliness, with its loving arms of forgetfulness and solitude, beckoned the tortured girl.
Dressed in the same skirt she had used less than a year before, Arya shielded her emotions from even Bran at their mother's and brother's funeral. Sansa arrived unaccompanied with red-rimmed eyes, murmuring her apologies for not being able to come to the house and that her plane left later that evening. Although Sansa held Arya's hand in a vice grip, there was no one to hold support her shoulders like Jon had done; no one to tell her that she was loved, the way her mother had after Ned had been lowered into the ground. Lovely Jeyne sat next to Sansa, sobbing into her handkerchief.
Without consideration, the dark-haired Stark girl left the funeral service while her body remained. She knew the merits of her mothers and Robb and didn't need to hear them repeated; instead, she floated through her memories of them, searching for her favorites. A slight smile pulled at her lips when she remembered Ned and Jon supporting a boisterously plastered Robb between them, shushing the intoxicated teenager to no avail as Robb launched into a drunken version of "I Wanna Know What Love Is," at two in the morning, rousing the entire house. Caitlyn had far fewer delightful memories, as the relationship between her and Jon had always strained the rapport between her and her youngest daughter. By the time the distracted girl sifted through recollections of her mother, Arya was forced back to the church pew as Sansa squeezed her hand.
True to her word, the ginger haired sister vanished after the services and the lone female Stark found that she wasn't even upset about it. In fact, Arya felt very little other than bothered by the concerned friends and distant family members continually asking who was going to take care of them? Who was their legal guardian? Where was Sansa and why wasn't she coming home? Osha, much to Arya's relief, stepped in to answer the invasive questions, keeping Lysa's interactions with her niece and nephews to a minimum.
Her fingers itched to fling the blade at her calf over and over into the nearby pew or wall, or occasionally into the eye socket of a particularly annoying "friend of the family." Instead, Arya retreated into her mind, repeating the lessons her absent assassin had taught her. With a smirk, the gray eyed wolf turned the entire situation into a deduction game, taking in the details of nearby persons; the white cat hair on a pant leg, the nervous finger flicking someone who claimed to have stopped smoking, a ventured glance between Bran and a young girl from school followed by their shy smiles. Moira? Mary? No, Meera.
The smell caught Arya off guard and her heart quickened its pace, frantically galloping at the scent of cloves. Forcing herself to appear calm, the wolf girl casually twisted and strained to get a look around the church as the crowds departed. Clutching her phone in her hand, as if willing a text message to vibrate, Arya felt her nervousness melt into disappointment as the aroma lessened. Surely, had he been there, Jaqen would have let her know, yet she could see no sign of the mysterious man that had left months before.
A few days later, the remaining Stark daughter sat next to her highly irritated aunt who launched into a tirade at the lawyer, claiming that there was no possible way that her sister would have left charge of the children to "hired help;" Lysa's emphasis on Osha's occupation was not missed by anyone. The lawyer reread the entire will over and was as relieved as the recently appointed legal guardian and her wards when Lysa screeched a last protest and swore that she would never return.
"Good riddance," Arya murmured, concentrating on passing her small knife between her fingers. Osha cast a sideway glance at the unemotional girl as the lawyer snapped his briefcase shut but said nothing.
Lysa's departure left a golden silence in the house. Meera bicycled over nearly every day for the last fleeting weeks before school started and Arya was glad that Bran had the company because she didn't even feel like being a friend to her brothers, let alone hanging out with them. Rickon learned quickly not to test his sister's patience, he more often than not would change his direction if it meant having to interact with the withdrawn sibling. The youngest boy had even returned to sleeping in his bedroom at night after the services.
Arya, for her part, spent the last days before her senior year practicing with her knife until Jeyne called her to come remove Robb's gun one afternoon. The weight of the metal in her small hand brought a sense of peace to Arya, like Robb was there with her. Disappearing far into the wooded area behind their house, the hollow-feeling girl emptied the clip into an innocent tree, pulling the trigger time and time again. When she returned to the house, she handed over the gun to Osha with tears in her eyes.
There was nothing acceptable to Arya when she started her senior year. What was supposed to be her best year of school was entirely depraved; she had no best friend, no parents; only massive gaping holes in her young life where there should have been contentment. There wasn't much to hold the attention of the bored and uninterested girl and her grades continually borderlined failure. Arya's flippant attitude and hot temper landed her in the principal's office, earning Osha's reprimands.
As her soul faded into nothing, into becoming no one at all, Arya found herself caring less. More than anything she wanted Jon and had no way to get ahold of him. She knew that if they were together, that it would all be fine, that they could face it together. The little sister would call him stupid and her brother would ruffle her hair and the abyss that seemed to swallow her spirit would close. And Arya found that since she couldn't be with Jon that she preferred the darkness that permeated her mindset…it was far easier to feel nothing than the ache.
Leniency ended just after the rebellious girl turned eighteen. An offhand remark by the recently crowned prom queen directed at Arya ended with said prom queen receiving a broken nose. Methodically, Arya inspected her hand while seated in the blue, hard plastic chair in the office, knowing that Osha had been called. Principal Bronn had lectured the violent teenager, pointing out her offenses over the school year. The indignant girl flexed her sore hand, trying to ascertain if there were any broken bones, effectively ignoring the man that switched tactics and tried to appeal to the girl's softness by mentioning her losses. At the mention of her father, Arya met the principal's stare, feeling the anger kindle in her belly. "You have no idea what I've been through," she growled lowly, holding the older man's gaze until he faltered and looked away.
Followed home by her legal guardian after being expelled and subsequently enrolled in the continuation school so that she would graduate, Arya sat quietly at the kitchen counter while Osha alternately yelled and sighed in frustration; there was a sense of appreciation that the girl had for her caretaker letting it all out instead of calculating a response like her mother had been known for.
Dismissed to her room, Arya sat in the darkness. She didn't want to be home any more. The blackness that saturated her life cried out for her to leave the memories and she fought the wave of flight. Arya knew she needed to stay for Bran; she needed to claw her way out of this hole and be the young woman her father had knew she could be. Yet, the ease and familiarity of nothing coaxed the girl to complacency.
If only she could forget.
She knew the trick, had seen the effects on others, yet, never had a go at the bottle. Long past midnight, the struggling daughter made her way to her father's liquor cabinet. "Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker," she whispered, grabbing her father's bottle of whiskey and heading out the back door to her father's garage. Arya gagged with every swig she swallowed and found that she really didn't care about the burning after the fifth or sixth pull. All that mattered is that the weight of loss fled farther with every drink.
Arya found that there was no reasoning with her intoxicated mind and found her lithe body swaying in the driveway, arms full of clothing that she had toted down from her room. Dropping the shirts and pants into a mound, the confused girl saw the back door of the house open and ran to the garage before she could be stopped. Suddenly, she was dousing the clothing with lighter fluid and throwing a match onto the pile of clothes. Bran's horrified face lit up from the flames and Arya hated herself for disappointing him too.
Nearly blinded by angry tears, the girl ignored her brother's fists pounding on the car window, his muffled pleas for her to stop and spun the tires in the gravel in her haste to escape the feeling that there was nothing in the world she could do to please anyone, to keep someone she loved alive. Arya told herself that she just needed to drive and get fresh air, as her inner voice cheered her to drive faster and farther.
…
White.
White ceiling, white walls, intense white lights high on the ceiling. Arya could feel the whiteness even when she closed her eyes again to deal with the lethargic feeling. She tried to raise her arm to drape across her eyes to block out some of the brightness, only to feel both wrists bound to whatever she was on. Panicked, her gray eyes snapped open to confirm that not only her wrists, but her feet were trapped as well. She uttered a curse while tugging on the straps.
"You father would disapprove."
Arya's breath caught at the voice near her head. "Where am I?" she croaked, refusing to look into the bronze eyes that were surely staring at the top of her head. Her mouth tasted metallic, her tongue, weighted. And faintly, just barely there, the comforting scent of cloves.
I Wanna Know What Love Is – Foreigner (okay, if you've never heard it, you're missing a quintessential 80's big-hair tune…look it up…right now)
The Trick is to Keep Breathing - Garbage