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ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
Strawberry Fields Forever
Claire still colors. Elle likes to watch her sometimes, sitting at the table with a thick book of pre-drawn pictures, flicking through each page to find the perfect one. Her eyes light up a little when she opens that yellow and green box, examining each and every one of those ninety-six colors as though the wrong choice could cost Claire her life. When she finally finds the exact hue that she's looking for, she takes it out of the box carefully, making a mental note of where it came from so that she can put it in the correct spot later. She presses harder along the edges, lining the black print with dark wax. Then she fills the rest in lightly. She always picks out the bright colors, and Elle thinks that only Claire could take a badly drawn picture of Santa Clause and make it her very own piece of artwork.
Sometimes Elle thinks that she might be able to color like Claire. She never had coloring books or crayons as a child; she was always too busy helping her father kill people. But when she peers into the box, the only color she ever picks is black. She knows she should use the other colors, but those are the ones that Claire uses, and they're too beautiful for her tainted hands. So instead she sends a jolt of electricity through the black one, watching the oily wax drip onto the paper.
Elle likes to think about the innocence that Claire exudes when she fucks her. She can see a little of it die inside of the girl with each thrust of her fingers, each moan, each pass of blue currents through her body. Elle likes the fact that Claire's innocence belongs to her, that she can rip it away so easily until the only trace of it left exists pressed between the yellowing pages of old coloring books.
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