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◤ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖘𝖎𝖝: ❛ but you're not mine ❜ ◢
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THE HARDSHIP OF SPENDING FIVE HUNDRED YEARS AS A GHOST WAS FINDING YOURSELF WITHOUT A MARK ON THE WORLD. Though she had seen the formation countries, fall of others, the prime of arts and theatres, political activism and rights for people increase for the centuries, she hadn't seen herself leave a mark on the world. Maybe in a few people she had seen the change she brought, but not the world. Even in what she loved the most.
When women could finally attend universities, she sought to gain an education, to enjoy that type of life for a little while. To have a different pace of life and understand the world in a different way because she had lived for so long and would be living for longer if she had any say. And she had chosen art history. So many nights writing endless essays about why artists painted their masterpieces, why the movements arose, what characterized them, why artists gained prominence. Even now, at her job, when she stared at the work and the unwavering portraits who stared back, she only saw what humans left behind and what she hadn't, though she lived undoubtedly longer.
She had so many chances to take up this trade, to try her hand at painting and gain the skill, but never had the patience for it, only the patience for understanding the theory and writing about it. For researching it rather than doing the act itself. Watching the tragedy portrayed in the paintings instead of bearing her emotions on the canvases for the world to witness.
And it was not to say she hadn't done anything with her time. She had learned many languages out of necessity. Italian was her mother tongue and English her second when she moved to Britian with Magnus when he was a baby. Her third French, and so forth. Not every language was sharp anymore, but still some phrases remained ready on her tongue whenever she needed.
She was a master at creating her own clothes, though nowadays she bought them instead of creating them. That too came from necessity of her younger days, when money was scarce and it was commonplace for women to make clothes from fabric, but still she maintained the skill for a longtime until she had more than enough money and likeness to just buy stuff from shops.
But those didn't leave marks. Still, Marisol Bigora was a ghost to the unsuspecting world at large, and while that a terribly lonely thought for her, it was still better. She wasn't supposed to be known, after all. She was a cursed werewolf who was over five hundred years old, too old, and she had originally been running from the Original Hybrid who would've killed her if he had known where she was. Marisol Bigora was supposed to be a ghost. She wasn't supposed to known.
"It's getting late, isn't it?" Carlotta walked up next to her, pulling the strings of her coat into a knot to close it.
Marisol blinked, snapping of her trance before nodding. "Yes, sorry. Guess I forgot the time."
