For allbingo
Sep. 4th, 2019 06:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladyofleithianTitle: Heroes Don’t Just Wear Slippers
Summary: Rachel Creed, and a study in crayon drawings.
Prompt: Crayon
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author’s Notes: I know I’m writing fluff for Pet Sematary. Let’s say I wanted to humanize Zelda a bit.
“Wachel!” Zelda Goldman was already excited to show her finished drawing, of the bad witch from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. “Wachel! I’m done!”
“Really?” Rachel’s three year old face lit up.
“Yup!” Zelda pushed the piece of paper, with a crayon drawing of the witch as she’d imagined her from her mother’s readings of the story, in Rachel’s direction.
Rachel furrowed her brow. Then, “What’s that?”
“What? That’s the witch!” Zelda grinned at her, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “The mean, scawwy witch of the west! The meanest witch in Oz!"
Rachel’s eyes widened. “How mean is she?”
“Weally mean! She locks Dowothy up!”
Rachel gasped, and Zelda felt a flicker of what, to a five year old, seemed like worry — worry that she had scared her little sister.
“Wachel?” Zelda said. “Don’t be scawed.”
“Really?” Rachel said.
“Yeah!” Zelda said. "Mama and Daddy and me will pwotect you, and we’ll dwive the witch back! We’ll splash her!”
“Will it work?”
Zelda giggled. “Yeah!” It was one of those things that seemed all too natural to her. Of course the witch would dissolve after being splashed with water — it was just how stories like that worked. It had been scary, hearing about Dorothy being hurt (Mama had explained that there were some people who weren’t good, but the good people outnumbered the bad, ultimately), but Zelda had gone, “Go, Dowothy!” when the witch had been defeated. When she grew up, she’d be Dorothy, slippers and all. Maybe share a pair with Rachel, if she could.
“I wanna fight too!” Rachel said.
“Yeah!” Somehow, it just seemed right, really. Zelda and Rachel, two sisters on the Yellow Brick Road. Maybe Mama and Daddy could come with them, and Zelda would protect Rachel from monsters. They’d travel to the Emerald City and see the Wizard, and come to Oz, again and again, forever.
They sat, lost in their ideas of seeing the Wizard, of braving the Yellow Brick Road. Then Rachel spoke. “Draw us?”
Zelda did. She gave Rachel a pair of slippers too, simply because she wanted Rachel to have a pair. To protect her. There wasn’t an additional pair of slippers in the original book, of course, but Zelda didn’t care. It was just drawing; you could do whatever you wanted.
She gave Rachel the picture. Two, tiny stick figures, holding hands (lines for hands, but hands were hard. How did you draw all these fingers?), on the Yellow Brick Road wearing slippers. Two pairs.
“Zelda?” Rachel said.
“You like it?” Zelda hoped she did.
Rachel nodded enthusiastically. “We both be Dorothy?”
Zelda grinned and nodded back.
***
It was twenty-three years later that Rachel helped Louis, her husband, thirty-four, pin Eileen Creed’s drawing of Church to the fridge. Even looking at it, remembering the hard work that went into the crayon drawing, made her remember, despite herself, a little girl named Zelda that had drawn both of them wearing ruby slippers. It was one of those moments where Rachel didn’t remember Zelda with fear or anything like that, but mourning. Mourning and anger at death’s unfairness at reducing that Wizard of Oz-loving little girl to some sort of m —
“Rachel?” Louis. “You okay?”
Rachel nodded. She never talked about Zelda. It was one of those things that was still too fresh. An eight year old girl with pigtails watching as her sister became — no, it was horrible to think, even when her healthy, chubby child hands had become almost like talons —
“Hey, hey,” Louis said. “Is it...”
She didn’t have to say anything about Zelda. Louis, sweet, understanding (if naive about how horrible and unnatural death really was) Louis, already knew. She did love this wonderful, caring man — it was amazing that even with her light and her dark, he loved her in return.
Louis’ hand entwined in hers. Rachel clasped it back, and they stood there. Sometimes heroes could be anyone — even husbands who held your hand to remind you that you were safe and sound.
Summary: Rachel Creed, and a study in crayon drawings.
Prompt: Crayon
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author’s Notes: I know I’m writing fluff for Pet Sematary. Let’s say I wanted to humanize Zelda a bit.
“Wachel!” Zelda Goldman was already excited to show her finished drawing, of the bad witch from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. “Wachel! I’m done!”
“Really?” Rachel’s three year old face lit up.
“Yup!” Zelda pushed the piece of paper, with a crayon drawing of the witch as she’d imagined her from her mother’s readings of the story, in Rachel’s direction.
Rachel furrowed her brow. Then, “What’s that?”
“What? That’s the witch!” Zelda grinned at her, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “The mean, scawwy witch of the west! The meanest witch in Oz!"
Rachel’s eyes widened. “How mean is she?”
“Weally mean! She locks Dowothy up!”
Rachel gasped, and Zelda felt a flicker of what, to a five year old, seemed like worry — worry that she had scared her little sister.
“Wachel?” Zelda said. “Don’t be scawed.”
“Really?” Rachel said.
“Yeah!” Zelda said. "Mama and Daddy and me will pwotect you, and we’ll dwive the witch back! We’ll splash her!”
“Will it work?”
Zelda giggled. “Yeah!” It was one of those things that seemed all too natural to her. Of course the witch would dissolve after being splashed with water — it was just how stories like that worked. It had been scary, hearing about Dorothy being hurt (Mama had explained that there were some people who weren’t good, but the good people outnumbered the bad, ultimately), but Zelda had gone, “Go, Dowothy!” when the witch had been defeated. When she grew up, she’d be Dorothy, slippers and all. Maybe share a pair with Rachel, if she could.
“I wanna fight too!” Rachel said.
“Yeah!” Somehow, it just seemed right, really. Zelda and Rachel, two sisters on the Yellow Brick Road. Maybe Mama and Daddy could come with them, and Zelda would protect Rachel from monsters. They’d travel to the Emerald City and see the Wizard, and come to Oz, again and again, forever.
They sat, lost in their ideas of seeing the Wizard, of braving the Yellow Brick Road. Then Rachel spoke. “Draw us?”
Zelda did. She gave Rachel a pair of slippers too, simply because she wanted Rachel to have a pair. To protect her. There wasn’t an additional pair of slippers in the original book, of course, but Zelda didn’t care. It was just drawing; you could do whatever you wanted.
She gave Rachel the picture. Two, tiny stick figures, holding hands (lines for hands, but hands were hard. How did you draw all these fingers?), on the Yellow Brick Road wearing slippers. Two pairs.
“Zelda?” Rachel said.
“You like it?” Zelda hoped she did.
Rachel nodded enthusiastically. “We both be Dorothy?”
Zelda grinned and nodded back.
***
It was twenty-three years later that Rachel helped Louis, her husband, thirty-four, pin Eileen Creed’s drawing of Church to the fridge. Even looking at it, remembering the hard work that went into the crayon drawing, made her remember, despite herself, a little girl named Zelda that had drawn both of them wearing ruby slippers. It was one of those moments where Rachel didn’t remember Zelda with fear or anything like that, but mourning. Mourning and anger at death’s unfairness at reducing that Wizard of Oz-loving little girl to some sort of m —
“Rachel?” Louis. “You okay?”
Rachel nodded. She never talked about Zelda. It was one of those things that was still too fresh. An eight year old girl with pigtails watching as her sister became — no, it was horrible to think, even when her healthy, chubby child hands had become almost like talons —
“Hey, hey,” Louis said. “Is it...”
She didn’t have to say anything about Zelda. Louis, sweet, understanding (if naive about how horrible and unnatural death really was) Louis, already knew. She did love this wonderful, caring man — it was amazing that even with her light and her dark, he loved her in return.
Louis’ hand entwined in hers. Rachel clasped it back, and they stood there. Sometimes heroes could be anyone — even husbands who held your hand to remind you that you were safe and sound.
