Save Me From Myself :: [Zion + Andy]

make me believe that I can change
make me believe that I'm not strange

It’s fine art, not finger painting, Zion.

The camouflage station is as quiet as the boy’s expression, suspended in time as his heart clenches and beats backwards, trying to rewind time. Sitting criss-cross on the floor in front of a mirror, shoes kicked off and shirt collar loose, he tries to relax (but he can’t, he can’t, he can’t) and concentrate (Sevy is so beautiful, but her face is already blurring in his memory - surely it’s a sin to forget a face so perfect; if only he could have seen her one last time). The spectrum of colors scattered around him could paint any picture, any memory he wanted, but he’s no artist. Right now, more than anything except not dying, he wishes he were so he could capture days that passed too quickly and bring them back. Then he could carry his family in his hands instead of just his heart.

Back home he would watch Seville putting on her makeup, uncertain why she needed it. It’s not about needing, she finally explained, it’s about wanting. It’s about me, not you. Not anyone else. I like my lips to be a certain shade of pink and my cheeks to match. I want a little black or gold around my eyes, because I do and that’s all the reason I need. Turning to him, she pressed her pencils to the edges of his eyelids, flicked what must have been a miniature fairy wand over his lashes, and gently touched that same pink to his lips. Everything was effortless and subtle, but he liked it, even if he couldn’t explain why. Usually Seville was the most difficult of his sisters to connect with, guarded with overly-practiced smiles that gave themselves away by never knowing exactly which moments to appear or disappear, but suddenly he understood her a little.

In the training center he picks up a small tin of pink and his mouth gives a tiny wobble, not knowing if he should grin or grimace. There is a black and white family photo back in his sleeping quarters, tucked under his pillow to keep it safe. His token. In it all six Lyons children sit just so in front of their parents, everyone smiling exactly the respectable amount they were told to except for Rio who couldn’t help grinning with all of her teeth on display. Despite being a photograph, no one looks quite as he remembers. It’s everything he has for comfort now, but it’s so... it’s so -

Posed. Fake. Lifeless. Colorless.

Dipping a fingertip into the pale pink paint he dabs a hint of it onto his gaunt cheek bones, impersonating a vibrancy he’s not sure he feels. Secretly he would try to replicate his sister’s artistry from time to time, but although he has improved, the application is still clumsy by comparison - a touch too heavy and imperfectly blended. Still, maybe Seville would smile for real if she could see her brother now. Maybe he’d say: You’re so pretty, Sevy. Everyone told her that, always, but maybe this time she’d reply: No, you’re so pretty, Zi. Except it sounds fake even in his imagination because Seville never uses names of endearment for anyone, never even thinks to, except when she’s being manipulative and has planned every word leaving her mouth for days. But maybe, maybe today could be so different. It could be another place, another time, another everything. After all, this is supposed to be a station for hiding in plain sight by turning yourself into everything you’re not.