Haunted

((This fic is in response to Top's fic here. Just a quick mun note; I have heavily plagiarised from Top's post. This is deliberate, to amplify the same scene and emphasise the entirely different perspective of that idyllic scene. Hopefully that echo of those same moments is abundantly clear with the plagiarism.

Massive props and kudos to Topmun for providing such a wonderfully evocative moment, and opening up a plethora of opportunity to portray my muse's opposing pessimism, yet still share the same dream. Comments are not just welcome, but craved ;) <3 ))

If you think there's no such thing as ghosts, think again. There are ghosts, specters, haunts if you will. I believe in - no, I know. Ghosts don't have to wear bedsheets or clink chains, they don't have to hide in dark hallways and leap out at the unsuspecting.

I am haunted. I am a haunt. And you would never know it to look at me. I lie in my white bassinet gurgling and kicking out my legs against the cool breeze from the billowing white voile hung at the window. My room is the most idyllic shade of muted pastel green, not pink as my father wished or blue as my mother desired. I am perfect, yet I am not to be. And this room of mine, this perfect room of hope will never be used. She knows this, she lives in terror of this. She waited a lifetime to find love like me.

She sits there, in that pristine white rocking chair, rocking silently on the floor that's shined so well that her reflection could be seen should she look down, just once. She never does. Silently she sinks back into the macabre, spiritless she stares into the distant mountains, but sees nothing of their majestic beauty, for all she can see is a futile dream tainted by blood. I am stained and bleeding, crimson pools seeping into and masking the yellow and blue threads that are the tiny flowers on my sheets. My gentle cooing has migrated to breathless rasps. She wishes she could take another pill right now, swig from the bottle, see this how he sees it, see this how she did just a short while ago when she was rubbing paint on his cheek. But the shine of her synthetic euphoria is fading fast and a deathly pallor consumes me and her.

Gone are the plastic erroneous hopes that something as simple and as fragile as his hair could protect me, I am dead and mutilated and yet she can still cover for me and her sanity with a smile. A smile as apparently natural as the breeze that makes my curtains dance. But it was him, Frost, that brought that breeze, an ominous reminder of my fate that sent chills down her spine and brought the sickening taste of copper to her mouth.

She turns to softly kiss his hand, lamenting that things were not different. In this moment, in a crooked mockery of their history, his was the innocence, his was the optimism and hers was the twisted morbidity of realism. For all his attempts to break her, she couldn't break him in return. She had found the heart inside of him through me, and she couldn't take it from him.