(Hiatus) Carmen Sandiego One Shots

Carmen POV: Letters to the Dead and the Unknown Pt. 1

Requested by AggressiveKittyCat

Carmen POV

I found myself staring out of the window for hours on a particularly rainy day, red sweater tied around my waist as one of my hands idly toyed with the hem of my black tank top. The glass in front of me had slowly fogged up over and over again with my slow breaths, and each time I would start writing on the condensation with my pointer finger until it all faded away. Each time, the words were different, but pointed in the same direction.

Dear Mom,

Hi. It's Carmen. You don't know me, I guess. But I'm your daughter. It's been over twenty years since Dad died. I don't know what to do...

The script dripped away.

Dear Dad,

Hey, Dad. I really wish I'd gotten to know you. I think we could've had an amazing life together. Thank you for loving me.

The words dripped down the pane.

Dear Mom,

Carmen again. It's funny, really, how I'm just scribbling on a rainy windowsill. If I write fast, I can get more words in. Not that you can see this, or anything. Where did you go? Are you even alive?

The fog took over.

Dear Dad,

I was barely even one, yet I still feel guilty, like I should've been able to do something -anything- to save you. Perhaps if I hadn't cried, you could've left quicker. You might not have been shot.

Gone, like my family.

Dear Mom,

I need you. Why haven't you been looking for me? Did you try to find me? Do you even know what happened? Do you think I died in that house fire as a baby? Are you mourning for both me and your lover?

Gone, like my father.

Dear Dad,

Why didn't you leave sooner? maybe if you had...

I blinked at the words, tears blurring my vision as I stared at them for a second before wiping the glass with my hand. Was I really angry at Dexter Wolfe, at my father, for dying? Or was I just angry at the world for taking him from me?

No, it was Tamara Fraizer that did that. ACME.

I stood from the chair and pulled it back to the table, shuffling to my room. I shut the door quietly; everyone else was taking naps, something I probably should've been doing myself. The extra sleep could be helpful.

Not that I really cared at this point.

My mind was all over the place, words scrambling to find purchase, meaning. Suddenly desperate to the jumbled mess, I hurried to find a pad of paper and a pen, sitting myself down against the wall between the window and my bed. Words... I needed words, and I needed them now. I settled myself with a sigh, shifting so that I was positioned comfortably on my sweater.

My blank gaze bore into the paper. The sentences in my head were rapidly thinning themselves out for me, lining up into what to write first, then second, and so on, until a different thought struck me.

What was I doing? What was I even planning on doing? Write a letter to my dead father and missing mo-

"Why, yes, actually," I muttered, startled to find my fingers already moving. Positioning the pen, and then suddenly writing.

I watched it unfold before me, as if I wasn't the one controlling the words at all.

Dear Dad...

I don't know how long I was sitting there, but at one point Ivy poked her head into my room. It was when her eyebrows raised in surprise that I became aware of the ache in my hand and the several sheets of paper beside me.

"Carm? Are you OK?"

I blinked at her in confusion.

"...You're crying," she said softly.

I dropped the pen and lifted my fingers to my cheek, not even shocked to find that they were damp. I glanced down to the paper on my lap and the one on top of the small pile. Sure enough, they both sported tiny tear drops, the ink slightly distorted from where they hit. Swallowing, I muttered, "I'm fine," my voice hoarse.

Concern washed over Ivy's face. "I- okay. What... what are you doing?"

Feeling suddenly defensive, I resisted the urge to cover the papers. "Writing," I said stiffly.

Ivy accepted that, nodding, though she still sound weary. "Okay... Well, uh, dinner's ready?"

I sighed, shuffling all of the paper together and standing, making a silent promise to come back quickly. "Coming."

Sorry it's so short, yall...

Excited for part two? Yes, no, maybe so???

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