The Sparks

CH. IV

(A/N: I think it's important to note again that this story is a work in progress. For now, I'm just focussing at getting the story out. So it this chapter seems short it is because it is. Details are going to be added after I've written the whole thing. Which is gonna take a while, yeah. Hope you enjoy this anyway. Again comments are muchly appreciated! x I)

CH. IV

"The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection." - Michelangelo

Song: Cake – Short skirt/long jacket

Put more details of their "friendship" in to make it progress more naturally

Alice Friggs was actually an interesting human being. Elliot was shocked. He had never met someone who intrigued him as much as she did. She had so many opinions about everything and never failed to surprise him. He had learned that she was Japanese/Korean and that her parents had met in London. He knew she had loved painting since she was a little kid and always got scolded for that fact that her art was so morbid - which was now her trademark. She loved reading books and talking about the universe and its different constellations. She liked dogs more than cats, but could tolerate both. She talked fast when she got excited and started twirling a strand of her black hair. She spent a lot of time in her art studio to make sure that her art reached a certain perfection. I think that's why Elliot related so much to her: she had a sliver of the same obsession with perfection in her. She, however, could see that she could never reach it. She also could accept that it was okay and see it as a motivation to work harder.

During the past few weeks they became closer and they spent most of the time in her art studio. It was a little studio near a park, with (what used to be) white walls but what were now walls full of paint splashes, "error art" and morbid pictures to inspire her. The floors were wooden and also covered with paint. She had a huge sound system because music inspired her the most, the sound echoed in the space. She a little fridge, some cabinets –mostly filled with tea, she hated the taste of coffee-, some bookcases and a big white rugs where she read if she wasn't painting. Elliot, traditional as he was, had requested a chair (which she had graciously given him), where he spent his time working, reading and inspecting her spark.

It was always at its brightest when she was photographing, painting or looking through things that inspired her.

He was puzzled. He had to take the spark, or else what would happen to the idea? He couldn't just stop. But this was the first person he could talk to, not fully in the way he wanted but at least they could talk about the stars, literature and art. She didn't understand him and he never tried to explain. Elliot did realize that when taking sparks he took important things from people. He was, to say it simply, a thief of passion. But he couldn't let them have it. He couldn't let it be, his idea being bigger then him. Yet this was the first time he that he was puzzled. He connected with her, something he had never done with someone. Could he let that go? She wasn't a friend but she was more than an acquaintance. Yet, Elliot could not have friends; he never let anyone close enough to see his reality. In the end she would, just like everybody else, just give up on him. Though he would care the idea would be more important than her anyway. So he put his idea before her, before anybody even before himself. He decided he would take her spark; not thinking about it ending her passion, her life's purpose and her career – only thinking about the idea.

***

The plan was the same as the first time, with Belle. Make her create something, he was quite sure that he hadn't had to use threat as a motivator; him asking her would be enough. Creating was, all in all, as much a part of her life as breathing. Just finding the optimal time to use her spark would be tough, but he would get it eventually. Of course he would. He would use the drug in her tea, just as he did with Belle, grab her spark and store it and end their relationship with a half-assed excuse.

Yetwhile making the tea he... Withered. He looked over to Alice. She was painting;brows furrowed, shoulders tensed and her hair in a low bun. Her spark inshining brighter then it ever had. This would be the perfect time to steal it.He ignored this underlying, questioning feeling – probably the only humanempathy he had in him, and walked up to her. "Made you tea, Al," he smiled asmile that was sincere to the naked human eye but was forced. She abruptlystopped painting, gave him a small smile and sipped a bit of her tea, andignorantly kept creating. He waited, keeping his eye on the prize. After awhile he noticed that her body began to shake. "Elliot," she said in a smallvoice, " I don't feel so well." Her paintbrush clattered on the wooden floor,leaving small specks of red paint. "You're going to be fine," he promised, and in a twisted way she wouldbe. Her spark was, just a Belle's, intertwined with her whole body. He grabbedit, pulled all of the roots out of her and was left with it in his hand. Hequickly stored it in a jar and looked at Alice. She was lying on the ground, anunfinished painting before her. He left the art studio, the park and her. Whilewalking to his apartment he sent her a half-assed apology and a story thatconcluded that he would not see her ever again. Breaking her heart in a whole otherway than he had with Belle's. Breaking his own humanity as well.