Devil's Angel ° {K.M}[Rewriting]

{053}

Into the Wild
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"One friend left to sell clothes, one works down by the coast. One had two kids but lives alone. One's brother overdosed. One's already on his second wife, one's just barely getting by but these people raised me and I can't wait to go home."
—Ed Sheeran {Castle on the Hill}
———

-

America had retreated to her mind, sitting cross-legged in a constructed clearing—one she had known well some time ago. The woman had been inside her own head for hours, more or less running from the external chaos. In her mind, she had peace and tranquillity, able to meditate in the clearing and privy to nothing more than the heat of the sun and the contrasting coolness of the wind. It was more than she could ask for in a break until her serenity was rudely disturbed by the breaking of a stick elsewhere in the forest.

She exhaled heavily through her nose, peeling open her dark eyes to look at the culprit. "Is it too much to ask for you to go away?" The figure shrugged as she tugged at the skirt of her dress. "Mm, yes, because I'm a manifestation of some of your memories—there is no going away." America scowled as she stared at the face quite identical to hers. The former watched her past self as she lifted her skirt of bountiful material and plopped down on the grass in a heap. The woman was right, she was no more than a bundle of existing memories able to exist as she was in her mindscape.

Eleanora Salvatore, born in 1842 and living well into the 1910s was the oldest of all versions of her in every lifetime until now. She supposed, even as she was physically the youngest now, that that would change in some decades. She didn't intend to be reborn again, whether out of boredom or curiosity. America had found much of what she had been missing then. "Well, considering it's shared, would you like to discuss that you hid your pregnancy from your family and then proceeded to fake your death and hide from Damon for sixty years?" 

The Salvatore scowled then, expressing her annoyance through narrowed eyes and a frown. "Maybe but I sure as hell don't have to talk about it." America felt rather triumphant at the reluctant admittance and she hummed, intending to go back to her meditating when another voice joined them. "Personally, I don't think it is as serious." The woman groaned at the accented voice, craning her neck to peer up at the newcomer, wearing a scowl quite similar to the Salvatore next to her. 

As expected, the person who had joined was near identical to the other two although much younger than the eldest among them. Eleanora Petrova, born in 1473, lived until 1503. She'd died just before her thirtieth birthday. The woman was gentle in appearance, her doe eyes kind and her dark hair long, curlier than every other version of her to exist. Recalling what she did, America knew she was someone who preferred amicability, finding solutions rather than violence and disagreements.