teardrops and twisted hearts
It seems to have only intensified since her death: her boy-crazed antics and obsessive ways. She can't feel the touch of a fellow human; she can't taste food or drink. But she feels longing and lust and a craving for attention (or maybe it's just companionship -forever is an awfully long time to spend on one's own).
She's quite literally a ghost, and one with an awful nickname and nought but a bathroom to her dwell in, so you wouldn't think she'd be picky. But it started with the handsome Slytherin (quite literally the death of her –but she wasn't deterred), and there was the rebel, Gryffindor Black, The Boy Who Lived, Draco, and just a few more, but Myrtle's standards were set. She could only have the best.
Sparkling jewels in a golden hour glass, they were her collection; her pride and joy. But they slipped out of her grip, each and every time. They were never really hers. She's determined that this time she won't allow it. She knows better now, and she must have her shining diamond ( for forever and eternity).
He captivates her at first sight.
He's beautiful, like them. Unhappy, like them, (like her).
She knows they're more alike -he and her- than he'd like to admit.
Shallow, self-absorbed, misunderstood, completely and utterly lonely.
He's brash and he's angry and so clearly hurting and maybe he yells at her, maybe he's cruel. But this time she lets the cruel comments slide. She knows what it's like to be bullied. She knows anger. And she knows now that tears and screaming and crying (moaning) just drive people away, so she keeps her calm, because she needs to, she needs him.
She was a Slytherin once; manipulation is in her ghostly silver blood.
All signs seem to point to him hating her (like he hates everyone else), but he keeps coming back; back to her bathroom, back to her, and that's got to mean something, right?
(Shallow, self-absorbed, misunderstood, completely and utterly lonely.)
He's the youngest in a family he can't live up to. Hiding low self-esteem and an ever growing sense of failure under a sour attitude and cruel remarks. Breaking down in this bathroom, sick of the attention; the stares, the comments, the gossip (everyone loves a pretty boy) and the flipside- the cruelty that comes along with the beauty and name you can only be born (nobody likes a pretty boy).
She's there for him. She makes sure she is. Through his tears and midnight confessions, she's there. She utters her condolences, lets him know she understands. It takes but words to slowly turn him against everything and everyone.
("That's terrible, they're terrible!")
("You deserve so much better"- and eventually - "You're right, I'm better. I deserve better.")
He'll be hers completely, soon enough.
Magic is a funny thing. Curses are a funny thing. Fate, she thinks, is a funny thing.
One day it's worse than ever before. He enters, slamming the door so hard behind him that it rattles every pipe. He's shaking with anger and unshed tears. Blond hair falls into a blackened eye and he stumbles to the mirror, stares hard into the face that he's grown to hate (the cause of all his problems).
The collision comes.
A fist hard into soon shattering shards of glass. He breaks the mirror and it comes shattering down upon him.
It's raining glass and tears, blood and twisted hearts.
Myrtle doesn't even bother to hide her gleeful cackles.
Magic is a funny thing. Curses are a funny thing. Fate, she thinks, is a funny thing.
His seven years of bad luck will be the greatest of her un-life.
Her pretty, blue-eyed boy.
(stuck, trapped, within her bathroom walls)
(with her)
(It's not forever, but it's close enough)
