She didn’t die. The machine was still far below, but the ivy held her.
Ivy waited in the darkness, listening to the commotion far above.
Her mother was up there.
As she waited, she remembered her childhood. Her sister wasn’t her sister. Violet had been her friend. Ivy had wanted a sister so badly, so Violet became such.
Her father was an artist. A painting commissioned by her mother, yet they had fallen in love. She had been born, yet her father still had to fulfil that commission, and so Ivy had never seen him.
Here falling towards her, in a shaft of light. Here was the one she had chased. Here was the one that had been between them, now falling for her.
He landed amongst the tendrils and leaves, moaning softly. She crawled towards him from the dark, into the light where he lay. He was broken, yet he would be hers. She would have him as her father.
He was hers.
For her.
For Ivy.
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