Fool's Gold ᨒ MAYBANK ¹

000

None of the other Pogues knew how Thea was handling everything, considering she shut them all out after that night. But then, the first day back to school rolled around, and they got to see exactly how she was handling it all.

She was in class with all of them, and while the teaching at the front of the room was droning on, she had in her head down in the back while she sketched with her pencil on her worksheet. At some point during the hour she was called for not paying attention, she tried to keep her anger in, she really did, but it just bubbled over because she'd been holding it deep inside of her for so long.

She just... snapped.

"I'm sorry if I can't fucking focus on your shitty lesson, but I can't think about anything other than my best godamn friend who was chased to his death because of a murder he didn't fucking commit."

She got suspended for a week, and her mother came up to the school, picked her up, and yelled at her all the way to the house. But Thea didn't care, she just stomped down the hallway to her room and slammed the door and locked it behind her. She pulled off her backpack and tossed her hoodie onto her desk chair, leaving her in a sports bra and her black jeans that were ripped at the knee. She pulled her easel into the middle of the room grabbing her supplies from the shelf, the anger building in her practically seeping from her pores, needing to be released before she explodes.

Once she has her smock tied on and her paint palette in her hand, dark paints ready to be used, she holds up her paintbrush, her eyes glaring at the empty canvas infront of her. After she stands there for a minute or two, her killer gaze locked on the sheet, she decides, painting is just not enough. So she drops her brush and her palette and grabs bottle of paint on her tray table, she screws off the lid of the red paint and flings the paint inside at the canvas. A long and messy spattered line of dark crimson stains the page, and it makes her feel a tiny bit of relief.

But she needs more, she needs that release.

So she takes all of the bottles and un-screwed them, the red, the blacks, the blues, the purples, and the grays. She uses them all and flings the colors at the page, her emotions in the moment spilling all over the page as the tears faucet down her cheeks. The pale as snow skin of her face a bright red as sobs and screams of anguish leave her lips, the grief clutching at her heart as John B and Sarah's faces floods into her mind like a river.

Seeing their smiling faces sends her over the edge, knowing that life would move on without either of them, like they didn't matter, it awoke a rage in her that she's never felt before. It flows through her veins, taking ahold of her, controlling her.

She knocks the canvas to the floor, the easel and her paint palette going with it. Then she goes for her tray table next, and it crashes to the floor, the remaining paint from the opened bottles spilling onto the hardwood floor.

She picks up the bottles and tosses them across her room, the plaint splattering on her walls and staining the duvet of her bed. Then once they're all gone she goes to her paint supplies shelf next, it and everything once placed on it falling to the floor as a roar of pure pain and agony rips viscously from her throat. She makes her way to her bed, her red and black footprints from the paint on the ground following after her in a trail. She rips the duvet off her bed, yanking up her sheets and tossing them across her room.

But as she was losing control, like a beautiful and tragic tornado wandering around her room in a grief and agony filled daze, she was too lost in herself to realize someone was coming into her bedroom through her window.

She felt strong arms lifting her off her feet, keeping her from grabbing at the next thing she was gonna destroy with her paint stained hands. For a moment she was gonna scream, or fight back, but then she heard a hushed voice that she hadn't heard in so long, because she pulled herself away from them.