so i took this down to edit it a bit and change the formatting, kinda, cause i'm anal like that.
so yea. have fun.
falling from the stars
It's raining.
She likes to relish in her self-hatred, as the raindrops fall restlessly, sitting by the opened window with her hair carelessly tangled and her face set in stone. Her (nonexistent) heart is wincing and it is all she can do not to crycrycry, but no, because Massie Block doesn't cry.
The world is all so fucked up she wants to laugh, hysterical and twisted; insanity incarnate.
Without her lipstick smirk and outlined eyes, her sexy confidence and killer heels, she is nothing. Just another figure in the world to live and fade leaving behind a breath deep imprint on the world.
But behind her meticulously crafted façade, behind the amber eyed bitch known as Massie Block, is a bitter longing for what she can't have. Jealousy, ugly and ruthless, festers within her, from her manicured fingernails to her painfully plucked eyebrows.
It's like drowning.
.
.
.
Every single day, it's always been this way. She gets the crown and everyone gets everything else. Alicia, with her sultry and seductive nature; Claire, and her effortless beauty. Kristen flaunts her athleticism and intelligence, paired with Dylan's recklessness and humor. Massie might be the first silhouette that eyes are drawn to when their exclusive clique strides by, but they never stay.
Massie often finds herself staring at her shiny, perfect (almost plastic) friends and wondering what it would feel like to stop caring. To quit attempting to steal the approval of the public, the admiration of others.
It's impossible, she thinks hopelessly.
.
.
/
.
.
It's raining.
The sun is shadowed and he thinks it's times like this that she's the most vulnerable, untouchable. The filmy window curtain is caressing her, and she almost looks angelic. There is a light scent of perfume and alcohol wafting through the air and Derrick doesn't know how the two can smell so good together. It's burning and intoxicating, and it's only then that he notices the barely touched bottle of vodka hanging by her fingers.
Unconsciously, he smiles wryly. She could never handle hard liquor, only ever drinking her sugary, glamorous cocktails.
It's the most curious thing, he ponders, how she's all contrasting angles and edges, a beautiful, contradicting shitshow. It's almost disbelieving how she can be merciless with a razorblade attitude but absent with empty eyes and how they both melt into her flawlessly.
Like a painting, she stares blankly ahead, lost in a place Derrick has no chance of finding. Maps and compasses are useless, overshadowed by a haze of messy emotions and broken hearts. He pretends to be asleep, that he's not staring, and most of all, he pretends that she's not already gone because he couldn't save her before she dropped.
Sometimes it's so goddamn hard.
.
.
.
She's Massie Block, independent and glowing. She's Massie Block and never the damsel in distress, never needing anything, anyone, too stubborn to ask.
She's Massie Block, he thinks, and she's fallingfallingfalling. And when she hits rock bottom, she'll crumble.
And Derrick Harrington knows he's the only one able to delve into the dark crevasse that is her mind and rescue her from the monsters threatening to attack.
It's the only chance they have.
So he does.
.
.
/
.
.
It's finally morning.
.
.
.
.
.
fin.