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theloveandthedead · 10 months ago

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Miss Sunshine

A belated Valentines gift for @smoke-and-silver

I may have gotten off topic since this is more about Bernadette's past but I still hope you like!

And forgive me if I got anything wrong about the lore! I'm still new to this fandom

Enjoy! <3

“Don’t do that,” Bernadette’s mother chided, grabbing her six year old daughter’s hand to correct the crayon’s placement. “You have to color inside the lines, sweetheart, otherwise the drawing will be ruined.

Although bewildered, young Bernadette nodded and proceeded to follow her mother’s directions, vigilant to not let a single stray line escape its border.

As she grew up, Bernadette realized how her surroundings were like that coloring book: everything in its place and any deviation from the norm would be met with firm correction.

It was expected that she would grow up to be a good, decent woman who would marry a good, decent man, and they would live in a respectable neighborhood where they would have children who would grow into good, decent individuals.

Rinse. Recycle. Repeat.

The picturesque suburbia was the epitome of orderly and mundane.

The same rows of little white houses.

The same style of neatly ironed shirts, always neatly tucked into ironed pants and skirts.

The same type of casseroles always passed around, sprinkled with neighbor gossip about the ‘hoodlums’ and ‘immoral’ outsiders of their utopia.

And no one seemed to find fault with it.

But Berndette, as she grew into her neatly destined place in suburbia, still felt that crayon in her hand.

Was coloring out of the lines so horrible?

Did everything really have to be “good” and “decent”? (By her late teens, Bernadette had developed an aversion to those words.)

So, inching her crayon out, she etched little flecks of color outside the border visible to no one but her.

The ladies at church wore white socks–Berandette sewed ladybugs on hers.

The children would play catch in the schoolyard–Bernadette would catch frogs in the creek.

Everyone listened to country and sermons–Bernadette had a hidden shoebox with blues cassettes.

The diner served their eggs bare–Bernadette would sprinkle some chili powder when no one was watching.

They were little things, but they gave Bernadette a thrill she never knew before.

Were these the ‘immoral’ activities her parents and neighbors sneered at?

But why?

Why would these little pleasures be sinful?

Bernadette tried to share her joy with her husband–a man who fit the suburbia ideal to a T–but was met with apathy and as time went on, judgment.

He judged her for a lot of things–her interests, her ‘babbling’, how much she ate, even the way she folded towels.

But he always framed it as ‘just being logical’ and that as his wife, she should just listen to him.

Just like all the men did to their wives.

Just like her father did to her mother.

And they listened because that is what a good, decent wife did.

But Bernadette felt bitter and unsatisfied.

All her youth, she had gotten her fix with faint flicks of color.

Must she, in her adulthood, continue to be content with just a toe hovering above the edge?

Couldn’t she finally break through the borders and color wherever the hell she may please?

And, as her lifelong partner, couldn’t her husband join her?

Would it kill him to step out of his box for once?!

If anything,he and everyone else were the strange ones!

But Bernadette swallowed her rage and slowly she withdrew her crayon and retreated back within the lines.

Then, during a trip to the grocery store, Bernadette noticed a flier buried underneath the MLM pamphlets.

A flier for a concert, to be exact.

“Ghost,” Bernadette read aloud, in utter awe at the masked figures and gothic artwork staring back at her.

Almost in a trance, Bernadette rushed out to her car–abandoning her grocery cart–and hastily dialed the ticket office number as her heart pounded in her ears.

Once again she stood at the border, but this time, she had buckets of paint and a pair of scissors strapped to her back.

Bernadette was on the verge of something, and she knew this concert held the missing piece.

There was no rhyme or reason to her feeling, but Bernadette knew if she didn’t go to this concert, she would be stuck inside the lines forever.

On the night of the concert, Bernadette told her husband she was off to visit her mother–the lie tasting like honey on her tongue–and he simply nodded while never looking up from his newspaper.

No “Drive safe, my love”, no kiss goodbye.

Like everyone else, their ‘romance’ was confined to chaste kisses and obligated intimacy that only ended when her husband was satisfied.

Teetering on the edge, Bernadette couldn’t help giggling as she ‘accidentally’ slammed the door behind her, and she practically flew to her car.

And as her car escaped the gates of suburbia, Bernadette felt like she could breathe for the first time.

The parking lot was already packed by the time she pulled in, but luckily she was able to find a spot without too much effort.

As she followed the crowd through the gates to the concert area, Bernadette marveled at those surrounding her.

Concert goers both young and old with their unique fashions and tastes.

Yet, they all shared one common trait–genuine happiness.

They laughed boisterously and showered their companions with affection without the restraints of ‘good and decent’.

Wild and free were the words that came to her mind.

Such foreign words to a dissatisfied member of suburbia.

But how wonderful they were.

Wild and free, yes what a lovely pairing.

Soon a hush fell over the audience as the faint strum of a guitar could be heard before the stage lit up and the band began to play.

All her life, Bernadette had attended that suburbia chapel with its beige walls and hard wooden pews that caused her younger self to shift uncomfortably, only to be stopped by her mother’s firm grip. She was expected to look straight ahead and listen to the pastor’s monotone voice, so she stared at the lone statue of Mary near the altar.

She was the Blessed Mother, the woman chosen to carry the Son of God.

So why was her face somber and her colors dull?

The statues of Jesus, the apostles, and even the angels were vibrant and resplendent, yet Mary–the most important woman in the Bible–faded into the background.

Yet this spectacle before her with the cathedral stage set and the band wearing demon masks as they played that ‘unholy music’, Bernadette knew this was true religion.

As the music washed over her, she ceased to ponder and think and instead just soaked in each ‘sermon’ with clasped hands.

Bernadette knew none of the words, yet she somehow found herself singing along with the crowd like the psalms of her childhood.

The hours flew by and as the mass drew to a close, Bernadette felt suburbia’s claws curling around her heels, and her nails dug into her palms as she clasped her hand tighter.

‘Please don’t let this end. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay!’

Then, as the final song of the night began, Bernadette felt this warmth caressing her cheek and she turned her head to find the lead guitarist staring in her direction.

No.

Not in her direction.

But at her.

And he was beautiful.

A light blush dusted her cheeks as she took in the way his shirt hugged his thin waist–was that toe curling sight humanly possible for a man?--and how he strummed his guitar like a devotee giving tribute to the divine.

But when her eyes met his, that blush became a cherry red because he fell to his knees right on stage, much to the delight of the audience.

One could chalk it up to being part of the show, guitarists often fell to their knees when getting into the music.

But this…..this felt like he was kneeling to her.

Like he was worshiping her.

Call out in the middle of the night

For when else would I hear you?

Fall out in the cold starlight

I can save you if you do

Everything faded away and all that remained was Bernadette and the guitarist.

You will never walk alone

You can always reach me

You will never ever walk alone

To others–the lyrics.

To Bernadette–a promise, a vow.

Call me Little Sunshine

Call me, call me Mephistopheles

Call me when you feel all alone

Just call me Little Sunshine

“Tell me your name.” Bernadette whispered aloud, one hand reaching out towards him. “I have to know your name.”

(“It is believed that knowing a demon’s name is a powerful weapon against evil,” The monotone pastor preached to the congregation. “By knowing a demon’s name, you have power over them.”)

The guitarist did not answer her, his gaze never wavering as the song reached its conclusion.

“Tell me your name!” Bernadette shouted over the cheers.

And, as the final notes echoed across the concert hall, the guitarist flung something in her direction and Bernadette hopped up to catch it with a gasp.

Upon opening her palms, she found his guitar pick and she gazed up to find him standing tall, his hand still outstretched to her.

Then, she heard it.

Like a lover’s kiss against her ear.

“Ifrit.” Bernadette uttered and immediately the guitarist–Ifrit–placed a hand over his heart and bowed his head.

And Bernadette’s heart fluttered as the crowd erupted into glorious applause.

------------------------------------

The entire drive home Bernadette was in a daze, one hand on the wheel and the other pressed to her chest with the pick warm against her palm.

When she pulled into the driveway, she sat there for a moment with a blank expression before eventually making her way inside.

The house was pitch dark–of course her husband didn’t wait up for her–so she flicked on the kitchen light and found dirty dishes left beside the sink for her to clean.

Her husband had steak, the bone licked clean on the plate beside the cutlery.

Bernadette paused for a moment, simply staring at the plate, before picking up the steak knife and making her way to the bedroom.

Her husband laid flat on his back, his jaw slack and his arm tossed onto her side.

Bernadette took a moment to just watch him, the way his chest rose and the light snores escaping his throat before raising the steak knife.

And bringing it down.

Again.

Beautiful, vibrant colors surrounded her.

With a jubilant cry, Bernadette flinged the paint across every surface until all was a kaleidoscope of color around her.

The border had been cut through.

She was free.

“I’m hungry.” Bernadette hummed, her hands soaked in blood as she dropped the knife and waltzed back towards the kitchen, the pick pulsating against her palm. “I think I’ll make myself some soup.”

#bernadette #the band ghost #smoke-and-silver #gift for the friend and love #i hope you liked it #thank you for everything!

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