└> 𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀 ❜
. . . ♪♪♪ : 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗀 - 𝖽𝗎𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝖺
can you really put a past behind when it's full of bright red? can a ledger so dark and bloody be covered up? can it really be possible to run from a wave of a crimson past...
bonus chapter. scrapped scene " hi, this is just an unfinished drabble for you all ... "
* UNEDITED *
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2 YEARS LATER SOMEWHERE IN RUSSIA
Entering his senses was a pungent smell of strong petrol mixed with rubber.
The story, in a way, continues here. Inside of a regular-sized, open garage. Tires were displayed on the walls in an organised size order, an array of cardboard boxes stacked in the far corner. He could see a patch of darkened concrete beneath the clothes rack with wet cloths hung upon it, and an unfinished, boxed salad on one of the tables by the enterance. There was some sort of life in this place.
But there was not a soul in sight. It guides him to the table with a salad on, his eyes looking over the papers scattered around. Pink slips and insurance deals. Different signatures and different names on all the papers. Some envelopes were stacked up and unopened, some addressed to her, others addressed to strangers... But none addressed to the name that he knew from so long ago.
"Keep close."
A thick Russian accent tells him from the side.
Spencer looks in the direction of the blonde, and gives her a quick nod, following the armed girl.
His eyes trail over the pinboard. Thank you letters, and some roughly drawn drawings with crayons that sat in a little, copper pencil-pot. It was out of character, he thinks. So much so, it brings him to let out a smile. She never seemed the type to have kids. Never seemed the type to take care of them either. But he supposed, she never got a chance to either.
Toolboxes. Oil cartons. Rags. Elastic gloves. Nothing too out of the ordinary. There is nothing here, more specifically nothing (and no one) he needs and he looks around a final time with a sigh before they both walk out.
They make their way towards the house instead, looking around the empty neighbourhood.
It's quiet here. With dirt roads, cobblestone pathways. Fences that gate off farms...
The countryside seemed as peaceful as people make it out to be, he thinks. The fields are large, and he sees from a distance a herd of cows and another house whose owner probably owns them. The grass, though nearing winter time, remains its vibrant green colour, and the fields of wheat have their leaves sway side to side in the gentle, late-autumn breeze.
Autumn evokes nostalgia. Leaves like fire, and blood - and this past doesn't isn't that far away either. Memories take a liking to changing weather. Arabella has weathered many, many storms. The flash of violence, the rumble of political fall out, the blind fury of hell-bent ideologues. Storm after storm, some she's caused that aren't entirely hers. But right now, the air has changed. It's colder every minute. It's not a storm. This is a change of seasons.
