ੈ✩‧₊˚ 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮... ੈ✩‧₊˚
❝𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭, 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐜𝐚𝐤𝐞.❞
❝𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟𝐟, 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲.❞
Or where Theadosia and her best friends find themselves in the midst of a dangerous and a...
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THE PROLOGUE (holding on, and letting go)
Theadosia Copeland's life took a turn for the worst, and it all began that night of the horrid storm that took her friends. Leaving their bodies and their souls lost to the wild waves of the briny deep for eternity, never to be seen again. John B and Sarah had been gone for a month, a whole thirty days. And yes, she was counting. She even had a calendar pinned on her wall. She would take a red marker and cross out each day, hoping that one day John B and Sarah would turn up and everything would be okay. But even though she knew that wouldn't ever happen, it didn't stop her from having hope.
The days that followed after that terrible night that changed her life forever, Thea was... an absolute wreck. Though the power was back in her home, she cut off any and all communication with anyone who was beyond her bedroom door. Her mom would try and reach her on the other side of the white wood, making her food and begging her to eat it.
But she never did, the food that she left out for her everyday would sit outside the room, untouched by her.
Sometimes she would hear her mom just sitting there, leaning back against the door crying, saying how worried she was about her, and begging her to just eat something. And the guilt that burned in her veins would make her get up, open the door. She would sit on the stool in the kitchen and listen to her talk about her day while she ate, just to make her mom feel better, because she hated hearing and making her cry.
Other days when her mom was at work and left her be, she would get up and put a paint smock around waist. She sets up her canvas on the easel she owned and grabbed her paints from her shelf of art supplies, she moves her tray table next to her bed and places all her paints onto it. A few months ago when she would paint she would use bright and soft colors, but anything vibrant or happy looking made her feel like a fraud, because she didn't feel any of that.
She felt miserable, like she was constantly plagued by a dark cloud above her head that always followed her. Like she was drowning in a darkness that she couldn't escape, it would claw at her heart and consume her very being. She didn't want to talk, so she had to find another way to get out her festering anger and sorrow.
So she painted, angry painted.
Before everything, the treasure hunt, running from the cops, the... death, she would brush with light and soft strokes, wanting to make sure her art was perfect. But now, her strokes were impulsive, messy, and reckless. She didn't care what her canvas turned out to be when she finished, she just needed to get everything she was feeling out for that time being. It was always a mess of blotch and splatters, blacks, and dark greys, and dark blues, purples and the darkest of reds.
Especially, red.
When she finished she would pull the canvas off of her easel and leave her room, with the masterpiece in one hand, and a zippo in the other. She would walk to her backyard like she did a dozen times before, light up the firepit, and toss her canvas into the fire. She watched with tears in her red rimmed green eyes as it burned, the edges of the paper a dark black as the flames turned the entire art piece into nothing but ash.
