𝖳𝗐𝗈

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𝙴𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚍𝚎 2:  𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚆𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍𝚘 𝚘𝚗 𝙼𝚊𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝

A/N

Hello! I'd like to formely apologize for not uploading to schedule. I realized that I might've thought too highly of my writing speed.. and now we're here. This one doesn't include as much Nancy, but we're soon getting to more Astrid/Nancy interactions next episode! For now, Chapter 1 will go through some HEAVY editing after this upload and this one might after Chapter 3 is uploaded (hopefully). Anyway, enjoy reading and see you next time!

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Ring! Ring!

The alarm clock rang furiously on the dresser, shaking vigorously. Astrid begrudgingly turned around to reach over, her face dug deep into her pillow. She blindly tried tapping it to deafen the annoying ringing sound, but kept failing miserably. After some trial and error, she finally decided to get up and reach properly to turn it off.

"Fuck's sake.. I need a damn longer arm", she mumbled to herself before sitting down at the side of her bed. She rubbed her eyes as her vision remained slightly blurry. Her body still wasn't used to her schedule, begging her to lay back down and abandon her responsibilities. But, someone had to take care of things now.

It was a gloomy dawn like usual, haze roaming outside. The slightest bit of sunlight slipped through her blinds into her bedroom when the sun hadn't even fully risen yet. She gazed around her bedroom, noticing those old books that were dusting huddled up into a stack in the corner beside her wrinkled satchel. The satchel that belonged to her mother. Her father sort of wanted her to get rid of it since they both were aware of the weight it held. But, it wouldn't even sell anyway, it was unsalvageable but the memories it held were of beauty. The unseen and what remained of the imagination made Astrid feel the need to keep it.

They had been debating about keeping items that belonged to her. He wanted to slowly forget her, while she wanted her lurking presence to linger and to keep it alive as long as possible. She couldn't comprehend her father, to want to erase the woman you spoke of as your destiny like that. It made her feel as if he wanted to empty the space to make room for another. Moving on wasn't a crime, but his way of doing it was worrisome.

As she squinted her eyes due to the weak brightness in her room, it felt like it had been pitch dark just a moment ago. All she could remember from last night was that she flopped down on her bed after completing the majority of the chores, along with starting the sketch for an oil painting. She had tossed her jacket down on the floor with most of her clothes, reminding her of the fact that she needed to take care of the laundry this morning.

After picking up her dirty clothes and taking them into the laundry room, her mind wandered. As she tossed her shirt into the machine, she thought back to her sculpture. She'd have to restart, which she didn't mind, but her teacher did due to it being her primary project besides oil painting. The oil painting she was supposed to have finished for next week. Whatever.

Her worry laid upon being able to recreate her mother's face properly. She had references, a multitude of pictures that she'd be able to stare at and work with. The issue was that she was never satisfied. She couldn't recreate that warmth on her face, that bright smile she wore whenever she laughed at the tiniest bit of inconvenience, nor the shine in her eyes that brought her hope whenever she felt desperate. Astrid couldn't recreate her soul in a soulless piece of clay.

Soon after that, she hopped into the shower in an attempt to get mind off of her mother. She'd be able to worry about that later, in the privacy of her own time when she didn't have duties to fulfill. After her mother's death, she'd been forced to adapt to the duties around her house since she hadn't only lost her, but her father along the way. Now, she didn't only have to do her mother's duties, but his as well 'till he could properly function. The truth was, nobody was properly functioning amongst them, but it was easier to fake like you did.

𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓽𝓸𝓽𝔂𝓹𝓮 / Nancy WheelerWhere stories live. Discover now