Elsa

Youth

She had gone too far.

The kid gripped his nose-bridge, attempting in vain to hold at bay the crimson, vivid flood that fell through his nostrils.

Elsa retracted her fist, cowering and falling back into her usual posture, crossing her arms over her chest, her left hand covering her right – the one reddened by the knuckles –. A couple of her classmates helped the beaten kid to his feet, but he rejected the helping hands and rushed towards the school.

She muttered something, some nonsense in a tiny voice, barely more than a whisper. Then, she heard those footsteps, the unmistakable clacking sound of her oversized shoes.

The young girl looked down, but she still felt the burning look of the redhead.

"Elsa…" she called. The blonde recoiled even further onto herself, turning her head and making her long, blue-tainted hair cascade over, covering her tear-crossed features. When she finally looked over, Ariel's gaze was still on her. There was neither disappointment nor anger souring those round cheeks.

Ariel stepped forward, slowly but firmly. Years of friendship had taught how to approach each other. The shy blonde had to allow any advance; the redhead had to be groomed and sweet-talked. As her slim arms embraced her only friend, the first tears dropped from clear, blue eyes, drowned in shame.

"I'm sorry." Elsa said, her fist curled around her friend's green dress. She sobbed, afraid, and kept mumbling the same trembling words.

-ooo-

She grew tall, slender. Her hands became rough from years of gardening, but she didn't care. The feeling of dirt in her palms and in between her fingers; the humid, hot summers, and the earthy smell that impregnated her overall and her loose shirts; she loved it all.

Middle-school gave way to High-school, and those years rushed by in a frenzy of shining, loud hallways and low-paid half-time jobs. And Ariel, her only fried, her whole world, had blossomed like a sunflower.

Elsa became the quiet friend: the one that dressed in ragged jeans and scared off douchebags who wanted to get touchy with any of them.

She dated a few times. The first ones were with handsome, so full of themselves guys she had wondered if they would explode if she poked them with a needle. Her next dates, she chose carefully – the locations and the gender –. Rides around town in her mom's old motorcycle and picnic's in the always-sunny spring; cozy and talk-filled evenings in tiny coffee shops on the winter.

Her first kiss happened in some tiny room at one of those noisy parties Ariel dragged her into. The girl's name was Belle, a short, sweet girl from up-town with big, kind eyes and long, shiny brown hair. Bothered by the obnoxious pounding of the powerful, trashing music, they had retired to the second floor of the host's house.

Both girls stumbled into an empty room – full of football posters and dirty clothes littered here and there –. They giggled, flustered by the alcohol in their bodies, and talked about something Elsa couldn't remember, nor care. Belle's body leant as time went by, inch by inch, until the blushing blonde could feel a funny itch on her nose, where the brunette's breathe tickled her skin. A second later, their lips had touched, clumsily; a touch so gentle Elsa felt even time's passage could shatter it.

They dated for a while, and eventually broke up. Her heart was somewhere else; captured long time ago, without resistance nor intention. Elsa knew, of course. She buried that dream as deep as she could, hoping its strength would wither and die with the long, painful passage of time.

Senior year came and with it, rage began to fill her days. Long, loud fights erupted between mother and daughter. One faithful night, a line was crossed. "A mistake", the young woman was called; those had been the words, and against her will, Elsa's eyes welled with stubborn tears. It didn't matter her mother's drunkenness, nor the stunned apology that followed. She left the house, stepping into her neatly arranged front-yard. The night's air was sweet and cool, and she heard the ever-present crickets of the grasshoppers. Slowly, her fists unclenched and she sat down on the carefully groomed grass, casting a longing glance towards the stars above. A choked sob left her tear-soaked lips.

-ooo-

The hospital's waiting room was filled with a broken, forlorn mixture of voice and sounds. The maddening, barely shifting silence seemed to play tricks on Elsa's mind. She could have sworn she could her the muffled screams of the sick. Every now and then, groups of people entered the hall, rushing towards the silver and white doors in between desperate calls for help; they ran with shaking steps, their faces grey and contorted, sometimes carrying a bloodied – or an unconscious – body.

By the time night came, most people had fallen asleep, hunched against their uncomfortable seats or lying flat against the hard, shining tiles. Elsa couldn't. Ariel arrived just before midnight, followed by her parents. Wordlessly, both girls fell into a deep, heart-wrenching embrace. The young blonde broke down in silent tears.

The minutes languished, dropping one by one in an ominous silence. Her thoughts swirled around, equally slowly, like a loop of despair inevitably closing in her sanity. Even after all the fights; even after the harsh, unforgivable curses lodged like daggers in her heart, the woman clinging to life on the ER was her mother, still. Her last living relative.

Then, someone called for her in a clear, booming voice. Her heart leapt. Scared, Elsa's eyes searched her best friend's, desperate for something to hang onto. The sad, warm smile from the redhead managed to give her some hope. But it didn't last. As she made her way through the sharp-lighted hall towards the green doors, she knew. The grip on her heart became almost unbearable and, before she reached the hospital's staff, she knew.

-ooo-

The dam burst open after she came home, well into the morning. She stepped into an empty house, all full of smells and sights like haunting echoes. Like a knife on her gut, something inside twisted and turned, and she couldn't hold any longer. Young Elsa cried, screamed. In her rage – in her burning pain –, she blamed God… she blamed chance, she blamed herself. Broken gasps and sobs filled the deafening silence, reverberating in walls that didn't care nor hear.

-ooo-

Orphaned at the age of 17; carrying out the arrangements for the small, almost pitiful funeral. This time, she found no solace in her friend's touch and soft-spoken words. Solace was but an illusion, she knew now.

-ooo-

There was no speech on the ceremony. Elsa had said her goodbyes days ago, and for her the religious service was just a formality – held in a tiny church, ways outside of town –. As she zoned out of the priest's litany, she wondered if her mother still believed in any form of God; Elsa concluded that she hadn't. He had failed them both.

Her gaze had been fixated on her mother's portrait for the duration of the mass. She had inherited many of Idunn's features: the tallness, her platinum, blonde hair and her elevated, beautiful cheekbones; while they looked good on her, she knew they grew pale in comparison to her mother. Elsa had handpicked that photo, taken a couple years after her father died – Killed In Action in some God-forsaken, far-away land –. Her mother's eyes were sad and yet, somehow, she had managed to shine with a peaceful, clear light: her smile had been sincere, and her gentle nature, driven away by the sorrow of her husband's passing, rose above all her past. A bright moment preserved, frozen miraculously in time.

The orphaned, young woman didn't cry, but for the whole service her hand clung desperately to Ariel's own.

-ooo-

Anna

Youth

Anna jumped. Anna ran.

Anna jumped. Anna ran.

Again and again. The field blurred each time she darted forward.

Unforgiving sunlight gave her strength. She had her white PT clothes and her track shoes. What else but run free? To bask in the summer's sun – always gone too soon – and cheer and cry and gasp. After all, she was 'The Red Comet'. It didn't matter if she won. What mattered was the sun, the air. What mattered was the rush. The burning heat melted down everything; only the present could exist at that time. There was only the thrill, only the slippery gravel beneath her feet as she jumped and ran.

It had been the time of carefree smiles; the time before the unbearable winter and the limping leg.

-ooo-

"Dear one…" came the muffled voice. Little Anna tried to hold the tears, sobbing quietly. An unknown feeling tore her up from the inside. She wanted to turn back time. She wanted to come back… but she couldn't.

"Go away." She said, voice hoarse and pitifully low. Dad knocked the door once again, and Little Anna felt the soft taps in her back, as she laid slumped against the wood. She felt cold… oh so cold. And above all, lonely.

How she missed home.

-ooo-

'A land of cold', Anna thought often. The white, shining snow threatened to blind her: a never-ending, monotonous blanket that was everywhere she looked outside her closed window.

She had refused to leave the new house – smaller than the last one, to boot –, even after school had started. She wanted to go out, desperately so, and play in the backyard or out on the street; she wanted to go and meet the laughing neighbors and play with their snow sleds, or build a great fortress from where she could peer over and watch all afternoon, but her stubborn streak was stronger.

The little redhead didn't want this new life. She longed for the old house. In this freezing place there could be no colorful skirts or light clothes. She missed the hot nights and the endless sounds of summer; she missed her plethora of friends, and above all, she missed Mom.

Dad's soft smile held while he attempted to explain to her, but she could see it through that façade, the hurt behind his calm voice. She may have been nine, but little Anna was smart, smart enough to comprehend that her mother had done something unspeakable: a betrayal that broke them apart.

Her kind, ever-patient father looked wary, tired. He appeared almost burned-out, as if some sickness had taken root inside him, stretching his skin, aging him unnaturally. His smiles now fell after a few seconds, void of the strength and warmth they once had not too long ago.

"We are going north." He had said a month ago. "Where grandma and grandpa live."

The way he spoke of their travel was like the times he took them all to a vacation, but Anna wasn't fooled. The sadness in his eyes had given everything away.

-ooo-

Summer was a lie, she knew. In the best of days there had been enough warmth for Anna to even dispose of her long overcoats and orange scarf, but those were the exception. As the weeks turned into months, and those in slow-moving years, she could see past her hatred and began to understand the unique charm the eternally white town could offer.

Races in snow skates and the ever-present excitement of a good snow-fight filled her days. She soon took over her High School hockey team, the White Seals, and ascended through their ranks at a meteoric rate. Days of white, days of tired legs, aching limbs and long, peaceful evenings in their restroom, listening to her odd foreign bands and drinking hot cocoa as her father read on his worn-out sofa, his glasses crooked in an almost funny manner.

In her heart of hearts, Anna had to admit, eventually. Her life wasn't all that bad. She could sing, and run, and somedays fly even, away from it all, imagining a future as bright as the winter's sun.

Then came the ill-conceived idea. Then came the blackness and the burning pain.

-ooo-

The bandages itched. There were so many stitches holding her together she felt like a straw puppet, like the ones she used to see in her Grandma's home.

The car's door had clamped the left side of her body, trapping her leg and chest on a mess of twisted metal. It had taken hours to release her: her consciousness kept drifting off every now and then for most of the time, only to pass out from exhaustion, shock and blood loss as they took her to the hospital.

She had received the brunt of the impact. Sharp glass had pierced the skin of her neck. Multiple punctures, minor internal bleeding. She had undergone a risky operation to save her life, and hopefully save her leg. Even in her drugged-up state, lying in a soft, white blanket, she shuddered at the thought of looking at a lump where her injured leg was still. She recollected only bits and pieces from the whole ordeal; her head swam in a sea of painkillers and confusing, toneless voices.

Dad kept by her side, barely sleeping. Anna looked at him and smiled weakly in a rare instance of clarity – some fleeting moments that she forgot the next morning –. She smiled at her disheveled, unshaven father because she knew she, in a sick way, had been lucky: she could still draw breath. Life had almost ended but, somehow, it held, strong, beating wildly inside her chest.

-ooo-

Broken. Damaged.

Anna was broken. Anna was damaged.

Her own body, sometimes, felt like her own and like someone else's – both at once –. It was maddening. Trembling fingers traced every inch and every nook of the grotesque scars and bloated skin that ran through her body. Like an old, familiar portrait, tainted by a splash of blood drawn by a mad painter, everything she saw was off.

A tiny part of her thought it wasn't a big deal. How could it change what she was, deep down? She was more than some angry, swollen tissue. Another, bigger part, however, could barely stand to watch herself in the mirror.

She was broken beyond repair.

She was damaged beyond belief.

The therapy for her ravaged limb had begun a couple weeks ago, and she couldn't take it no more. It felt utterly pointless. In order to begin, her expectations had to be tempered: she had been told that even if she managed to recover, her past achievements could not be replicated.

That meant no sports, nor competition. 'A void life', she thought bitterly.

She had become useless; guilt ate at her every instant she fell in reflection. How was Dad paying for everything? She wondered, anguished. Every time she asked, he would dismiss her questions with a warm smile. "Worry only about your recovery, Dear." He repeated each time.

Anna winced at her own reflection. Every now and then, sudden flares would crawl down her leg, from her knee to her hip; a burning rage that seemed to rip open her inner muscles. With gritted teeth and a wild grimace, she fell down onto the wheelchair, rubbing her wounded leg in a frantic, desperate attempt to hold the agony radiating from her botched limb.

The redhead sobbed, gasped hollowly, gripping – white knuckled – at the bathroom's counter.

Another flare ran up, testing the very foundations of her sanity. Again, a stranger looked back at her from the other side of the mirror. A light sweat covered her forehead, running down her neck and collarbone; her fiery mane fell in loose strands all around her sickly thin face. The bags under her eyes were so prominent they now seemed to surround them completely: it was as if her orbits had begun to sink inside her skull. All she could see were hollowed cheeks and ghostly skin…

She felt, and looked, drained. Of life, of hope.

-ooo-

AN: A little experimental piece. For those wondering, my first fanfiction, Crimson Desires, is still being worked on (as well as my other stories, the ones published and the ones in the works still). A very deep apology for the delay; Chapter V should be up this month. In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this one, in which I have been working on these last months (practically the only stuff I could write with some semblance of quality). This will have a continuation (I'm still debating about the whole extent of this one, but should be about 5 to 6 chapters) which should be up very soon.

Until then, cheers!