The Georgina is my head isn't quite as dark and twisty as this makes her out to be, I like to think she actually does get a bit of a kick out of the things she does. But it's hard to justify all that without some tragic past, so I had to allude to something. I'm not entirely happy with this, but I did try to do her character some justice. Let me know what you think of her.. and if I failed miserably!
xxx
Georgina was always the one that walked away; she was the lone figure standing atop that pile of debris, broken lives and happily ever afters when the dust settled. Nobody ever knew what it had taken for her to be that person, what she had to give up, sign away and lose to be that, to survive. And nobody ever would. She would always make sure of that. Still, she saw what she did and what she had become. A person can't lie to themselves. But bend, mould and gild they can, if that's what it takes to stand their own skin. Georgina could do that. Because eventually, when you repeat it enough, the lines begin to blur and what was only a slight resemblance becomes the truth.
She enjoys this. She enjoys this. She enjoys this. She enjoys this. She enjoys this. She enjoys this.
Georgina wasn't always like this. She used to be happy, normal, a child. Georgie. There were days when her biggest high was fairy floss, her games ended in breathless laughter and her smile couldn't be construed. But he took it away. The scariest thing in the world stopped living in her wardrobe and, she thinks now, she stopped being Georgie.
She changed. Only it's more than a haircut.
She scarred. Only it's worse than razor sharp lines.
She's broken. Only there's no splint to hold her together.
She's different now, in the worst, most painful way. Irrevocable. She's locked those beautiful, innocent memories away in a part of her mind that she doesn't visit often. She would never admit – even to herself – that she's scared; scared that who she's become will somehow sully the memories of who she once was; who she could have been. They're too precious, and she couldn't live with herself if she ruined them, just like everything else. But when she does risk it, oh, it's perfect. It's home. For the finest strand of time, she's watching the rain drops dance on her window sill, trying to touch the winter sky from her grandmother's swing and following every bit of new information not with a scheme, but a "why?". But then she locks the vault, hides the key and opens her eyes, the slightest hint of a real smile on her face. And then it's gone and she's Georgina again. Changed, scarred, broken. It's below the surface, but the only place she can see it is in the mirror.
It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt.
Years of practice. That's what it took to perfect her act. Sometimes she'd slip up, and it would feel like an iron fist had taken hold of her insides. Gripping and twisting; stealing her breath and turning her stomach. The fist would always loosen when she'd realise they didn't care to notice her pseudo smile or the want in her eyes. But only a little. That's how it started, really. The act that just got her through the day soon became all about schemes and black mail; scandals and suffering; the deserving and the scapegoats; heartbreak and pain. Oh, she would make them care about Georgina Sparks. When they'd see her smile, they'd see truth – she didn't care about them. When they looked in her eyes, they'd see truth – she didn't need them care about her.
She is in control. She is in control. She is in control. She is in control. She is in control.
The truth? Her truth? She couldn't tell the difference anymore.
She enjoys this. It doesn't hurt. She is in control. She enjoys this. It doesn't hurt. She is in control.