Her life to this point, is a picture in progress, being painted by different hands, yet the same artist all the same. They had no specific name, these artists, they had many, so, so many.
They were called grief and anger, they were called failure and stolen ambition. At some point they were called murderers. They put thoughts into her head instead of teaching her choice.
She... she was a canvas her artists had scratched at with daggers and burnt with fire. She had been thrown to the sea and coughed up by the ocean, only to ever be torn again, again and again.
When they had met after the longest moment they were different. They had known each other once, when they were children, still slightly blank canvases, untouched, unspoiled... but now...
now they were lost. They were confused as to if there was anything good left for them, for who would want something as bad as them? Who would want the art of monsters?
They will soon come to realize when they are older and wiser; these monsters were not the names they had been given, they were not sadness or grief or anger;
they were one name all the same; they were named reality.