❝In which two people call up a helpline in order to find someone just as broken as they are. ❞
"Does...does it bother you that my dad's in prison for murder?"
"Well, judging by the fact that I moved away from America to get away from the memory of a...
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Elliot sat in the art museum. Alone, sitting on one of the uncomfortable arranged benches as people walked past him without a second glance. Only a few stopped to admire the painting, most walking past the canvas with a look of dismissal as they continued onto the more famous artworks. Which was understandable, really, because the piece wasn't particularly special. Just another portrait of a boy. Head and shoulders only. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Smile wide, caught in the middle of laughter as he grinned at his reflection sitting on the bench opposite.
Elliot remembered when she had taken that picture, remembered how he had chased her around the house begging her not to paint it because he looked awful. He remembered her taunting laughter as she continued to sprint around the house with a paint brush. He remembered tackling her to the ground and tickling her even though she was twenty years old. And he remembered how happy she had been to see her artwork in a gallery. At last. One big dream accomplished and straight onto the next one.
He smiled faintly at the memory of how ridiculously great her aspirations had been. Always a little too big, a little too glorious. But she never faltered. She kept looking up to her high standards and never once glanced down at her feet. Which made her a little absent-minded, obviously. The number of times that she had walked into lampposts was outrageous. But she had been a breath of fresh air in a world that cared too much, walking out of the house in paint-splattered clothes and extremely loud opinions as she strolled out into the world.
She had been the only blonde one. Which was somehow more miraculous than being the only girl.
"It's a bit tasteless, isn't it?" Elliot heard an old man comment, his head snapping up as he took in the sight of a seventy-year-old man leaning on his cane. His voice was strongly British, high and mighty as if he was seconds away from asking for a plate of tea and crumpets. "I mean, look at it Sarah," he gestured from his companion to the painting, "it has no flare. No pizazz. It's a bit flat really, if you ask me. Almost as if the artist put no thought into it all."
Elliot's fists clenched at his sides, tight balls of fury as he rose from the bench in an incredibly stiff manner, walking over to the spectator with blazing eyes and a taut jaw. He shouldn't have felt as offended as he was, he knew that. Everyone was entitled to their own opinion. It was something that Grace had strongly agreed with herself. But he wasn't in the mood. The nightmare had shaken him up more than he cared to admit. And this guy was just coaxing an already raging fire to burn him if he went around saying things like that.
So, without any warning whatsoever, Elliot delivered a swift punch to his jaw.
