WILD BUT NEVER FREE

Outside the frame

Hey all! Double update, I wanted to bring in a dual perspective between Atlas and York, so here is York's POV. The jumble of memories may seem a bit messy but I really wanted to emphasise the spontaneity of emotion that they would both be feeling. Hope you enjoy. Elz <3

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To me, she was never Cassi, she was always P.

There was something about the way people shortened her name that just seemed to forget the unique beauty of who she was, deep beneath the warm surface she presented to people.

Her mother had been obsessed with greek mythology, instead of bedtime stories the Wild's had been told of all the Gods and Goddesses, Titans and Giants. The Cassi that everyone saw, was far from related to the horrendous myth she had been named after, but a part of me figured that something within her connected to that beautiful Goddess who committed hubris and offended the sea gods. P would never offend a soul, but her beauty was undeniable, she was my sea nymph, calling me to danger with those striking green eyes, I was ready to get washed up upon those jagged rocks that separated the rough seas and the safe shore as long as it meant I could bask in her beautiful green waves.

I was well aware when I met P, that beauty meant danger but I was prepared for every blow that came my way as long as it meant even the shortest infinity of time with her.

Even though I had known Atlas for years before, the two of us who knew the pain that family caused, decided to keep our friendship away from the complications of our close relatives; the two of us together had a relationship which was far from what we were used to. Not wanting to ruin that, I didn't set foot in the Wild household until I was thirteen, and it was then, that very day that I met her. I remembered how her long dark hair was tied up in a yellow bow, she was wearing her grey school uniform that looked old and tattered and the faint pain that was etched onto her face was undeniable.

I remembered the exact feelings that flooded through my body as soon as I saw her. I had never felt such a pang of sympathy for a person in my life. The very first moment I saw P was the moment I realised the strength of my best friend. He had always told me that his family life had been far from ideal, but the expression that plagued his little sister's young pretty face in the least suggested he hadn't told me the whole truth.

Most guys my age would have been nervous around girls, but I had grown up side by side with my foster sister Elle, so I knew exactly how to handle a conversation with a pretty girl. I suppose at the time, I must have realised P was much younger than I was, and was the sister of a boy I was considering to be family, so I obviously felt nothing but sympathy towards her; although it was hard to imagine a world where I wasn't attracted to P.

I remembered the way she watched me, shocked to see a stranger standing in the middle of the kitchen. I knew the feeling of not being able to invite anyone to your house, so I knew how strange it must have been to finally have someone from the outside penetrate your painful bubble so I tried to be as friendly as I could. I noticed how dreary their house seemed, undecorated, cold and glum, matching the dull expression on his sister's face.

"Hey, I'm York." I said to her with a smile. Atlas had strayed from my side to grab two cups to get us a drink, allowing me to stare his sister down inquisitively in the same way she was doing to me.

"York as in the place?" Was what she eventually said. Her questioning curious nature intrigued me, the way her question made me smile making me lose all control of the silly grin that became plastered on my face, made me realise that she was someone I wouldn't be able to forget.

"Yeah, my mum couldn't think of anything more interesting than naming me after the place I was born." She looked at me as if questioning if I was joking. But I was telling the truth.

When she had assessed my comment appropriately, she seemed to relax slightly in the chair she was sat on at their rickety kitchen table. Her stiff body eased and I noticed her legs began to unconsciously swing under the table, emphasising the purity of her innocence.

"Our mum named me after a goddess who was tied to a chair upside-down for eternity and Atlas was after the guy who was forced to hold up the sky." She told me, as if trying to one up me on my story.

"What's your name?" I asked her without hesitation. Of course Atlas had mentioned his sisters, but a part of me couldn't stop talking to her, asking questions, listening to her voice. When she was talking, her frown disappeared from her face, if only for a few seconds, but a few seconds seeing her distracted was enough to calm the tidal wave of worry I felt for her and replace it with simple longing just to know more about her.

"Cassi, well Cassiopeia, but I don't like my full name." She told me openly, her bright green eyes not leaving mine.

"At least you can shorten yours, I'm stuck with this crap for the rest of my life." Atlas interrupted the conversation sarcastically, breaking the intensity of my gaze which was still interlocked with his sister's.

"You just like to moan, Atlas." P rolled her eyes, almost as though in that split second she had forgotten I was still there, despite the slight emptiness that opened in my stomach I couldn't help but laugh at her remark.

After that day, I began spending more and more time at Atlas' place. It quickly became more of a home to me than any of the other houses I had placed into in foster care. Home wasn't the place, it was the people. Atlas and his sister soon gave me an escape from my reality, we got through the awkward years together, we supported each other through everything. All of the moments I would've missed without a family to provide them, were captured in our memories and on P's precious camera that she constantly had in her hand, which quickly became one of her vital organs.

I was flashed back to the moment when the image of her camera snapped through my mind. That curiosity, smartness, alertness was deeply rooted within her from a young age. I knew that, I knew her. Never in a million years would I have suspected that she was suspicious of me in her final days.

My mind was forced into overdrive as I thought of all the things she could have caught me doing on her camera. What had made her suspicious? Oh god, the churning sensation in my stomach matched the intensity of the mechanics that were sparking in my mind.

Oh shit, this was headed south sooner than I had anticipated.

I felt the small lady sat next to me stiffen. Morrison, my lawyer, was obviously not happy with the fact something had been sprung upon her so early that I hadn't told her about.

But how could I have told her about this?

She looked at me almost scoldingly before she stood up to give her opening statement to the jury. My heart was thumping, my mind was racing, I'd fucked up already and for once I admitted to myself that I had to lay all my trust in little Anthea Morrison, if I was going to have any hope at all.

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen of the jury, your honour." She turned to the judge, acting in a way that was so sophisticated and reserved it was hard to believe she was born in this century. "I am here to represent my defendant, York Yardley and prove him innocent of the murder of Cassiopeia Wild. As I will address in this trial, my defendant has been charged based on insufficient evidence and an assessment of his character which is entirely inaccurate. At this stage in the trial I urge you to think about the mediums of evidence the prosecution will be presenting. In most murder trials, evidence is something which directly and physically links the suspect to the crime. This conviction is based on a mere photograph. Of course the photographer is important, as it has come straight from the hands of our victim, but I ask you to think about whether a photo can physically place the blame solely and responsibly into one's hands. What is in a photo is important, yes of course, but what has been omitted is just as important, and my chase of lose ends left by the prosecution will show you, ladies and gentlemen that Mr Yardley is not the killer we were looking for."

I could finally breathe again.

I was sure Atlas had spent a lifetime sifting through those pictures, but he had always been the type of guy to look no further than the surface, and he was missing a hell of a lot if he thought those pictures linked me to P's murder.