>+12 hours until trial. p 1 of 2.
Dusted light engulf her wholly, illuminated by the hanging moon, a room meant for two is occupied now by one. Shimmering were blades of today and long ago, mounted on the walls, never to be held by their one and only master; moonlight travels at their sharpened edges, glistening and bright like teardrops yet to be shed.
A storybook bookended from one wall to the other, painted in pale blues, pinks, golds, and whites, where a hat-maker and a swordswoman would’ve begun their journey. In the prologue of their strange relationship, needle-sharp wit meets blade-sharp mischief, skeptical brown eyes meet indomitable brown-and-pink eyes.
And where did the first chapter take them?
A hat-maker pacing like a phantom in the living quarters, garbs of their familiar unordinary grays hanging on her body. A swordswoman mangled as a corpse on the cold floor, garbs now heavy with her blood.
She haunts the room.
She expires in med bay.
She squeezes her eyes shut.
She cannot see anymore.
Her expression twists in living pain.
Her expression reacts with dead nothingness.
Loosened from their uniformed bows, copper hairs lick out like kindled flames. Against the reflection of the moonlight, a unusual silvery shimmer overtakes several of the strands, yet those locks are eaten away by the red golden majority.
Marred palms flex and twist to fists, compulsory movements of body eases burden after burden of thought and memory. Continuous back and forth, the breathing specter is in her trance-like walk across the living room.
You should’ve said something sooner the moment you noticed her spotty appearances.
You didn’t do enough, you failure.
You could’ve prevented this, you good-for-nothing.
We could’ve found her sooner had I not been stupid, been foolish, been my typical idiotic self.
She might’ve been able to live. She might’ve been able to die with company.
Doctor Ziegler could’ve patched the wound, Miss Ume could’ve been on the tracks of the attempted murderer, Mister Kujo and Mister Giroro could’ve been already forcing the truth out of people, Miss Grof could’ve been comforting her with baked bread, Mister Goodman could’ve roused the successful save with a good rally and song - - -
Selfish girl, having taken all precious time and resources during the times before and hadn’t noticed anything strange. Though, are you surprised? Anything you could’ve done will be defiled by your misfortune and nothing good will come out of it. No wonder your investigation leads nowhere, no wonder your attempts to help were fruitless and wasteful of precious time -- as wasteful as it you breathing. Ty-pi-cal.
No happiness, no guarantee, no promise. That is what you are. A nothing, a worthless nameless thing. A void of disappointment and misery that takes all the good around and worsens it just by mere existence.
They were always right about you; you will have nothing, you will become nothing, and you will bring nothing.
The berating choir finally make their appearance after a week, normalcy for Sophie Hatter has returned.
Memories return. The first was at the bedside. His head heavy against his pillow, eyes following her hands as she adjusted him in his bed. Another day of low energy, struggling breath, but a bright demeanor at the harrowing fate ahead. She sets aside one of her books, a favorite of his, wanting to inquire more about a passage where his favorite quote was.
They talk for an hour. He yawns, comfortable but still feeling himself unable to sit up in bed. She tells him not to worry, she’ll adjust for him. Regular routine, quiet exchanges, but a lingering tenseness shared by father and daughter. I’m sorry.
Yet, before her eyes, he is fading.
He tells her goodnight, and squeezes her hand, and lays his head down.
He is gone by the next hour. It should’ve been me.
The second was on the ground. Postmortem salutations made in silence between the suite mates as she readies herself with gloves to observe. Glassy eyes reflect her subtle motions, her hands respectfully and gently handling the departed with gloved hands; the weight of her judgment can be felt from beyond the grave. Wary fingers lift and turn various parts of the body, brushing bangs from forehead, inspecting coagulated blood and red paint.
Speared with an I.V. drip through her gut, she was unfortunately disturbed from her original place of rest, becoming a red herring in the medical wing. Tragedy of her passing poisoned now to be the representation of someone’s attempt to deter the truth, the truth of her death. I’m sorry.
Gospel, to find it in a dead woman’s eyes, an eerie thing.
Yet, when Sophie returned to her feet, cleaned herself, and was about to leave - their eyes connected.
She anticipated and then her thoughts were confirmed; she knew the truth. It should’ve been me.
Jittering life into the now motionless Sophie, staring down at the floor, was her phone tucked away into her cardigan’s pocket. Silent scarred hand moves, retrieving the phone, and brings it to her attention. Tap, tap, tap, goes her finger, reading the latest notification.
Retiring her phone into her pocket, Sophie regains sentience from her trance, finally taking a loud breath. Exhausted and heavy eyes scan through the room, watching the closed door, and now her feet were moving --
Though, it is first towards the side, to a small coffee table that housed a slim and curved white marble vase with blue accents.
Canterbury bells, an assortment of light blues, pinks, and whites bunched together.
Pinching the stems, to then a satisfying snap, she gathers one of each color. She gathers them carefully in her hand, before moving to the large workshop table on the “atelier” side of the room. Swiftly and quietly, she opens the drawer to one and pulls out a black ribbon, and closes it.
Back to her path, the hatter escapes into the comforts of the darkness and night, leaving behind their room. Her room, not their room. No. Their room, not her room. While she may have expired and may no longer rest her head on this bed, what remains here is still her’s.
Sophie Hatter’s nightly departure begins.
A/N: This is Part 1 of 2.
A/N x2: Sophie (finally) read the e-roster and is referencing everyone by their last name, if they have one.
A/N x3: Canterbury bells are specific Bellflowers. These flowers are what Sophie interacted with when first talking to Neopolitan. These flowers represent death. :)
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