.:don't panic:.
dylan marvils
.
Once upon a time, there were two people who just weren't meant to be together.
She thinks about what could have happened - Dylan's standing in the center of the room, her arms loosely wrapped around the neck of Derrick Harrington, and she stares grimly at his face, a face with enticing eyes that she had once loved; on her finger lies an ornate ring, and she looks gorgeous with her one of a kind Valentino dress, but it's simply not enough - no matter how much the two of them seem to be the perfect couple, the queen and a king, everybody knows that Dylan's just a princess, and now, she knows it too.
She's staring into empty space, and realizes that this - anything between them is just a memory, like this dance is already over, and of course, Derrick doesn't understand. So, Dylan holds onto him tighter, and wishes for this moment to never end - but like any other moment, it does, and to be honest, she's sort of thankful when it does end.
Memories fill her head suddenly - and then, it's all a mistake, and the mistake is over.
Mistakes are evident - perhaps, everything that she's forced herself to do, the person that she's forced herself to become, maybe even everything about Dylan is just one big mistake, because it certainly doesn't feel like it as paid off. Nevertheless, there was no work put in to get a successful outcome, and Dylan keeps on believing that fairytales are true, and that her prince will one day coming, but darling, didn't you know that ugly girls don't get princes?
She spends her afternoons cooped up inside of her bedroom, fluffy pink and blue embroidered comforter, covering her fat legs - she can't bare to see her thunder thighs, as everybody keeps on calling them - and her feet, which have grown in grotesque proportions. Dylan dons an oversized Adidas sweater, blue and white stripes and closes her windows, making sure that nobody will ever see her, not now, not until she fixes herself. Light still glares through the blinds, defiant glares, and half-glazed over eyes allow them to remain slightly open, just slightly.
The light floods through across the expanded bedroom - a heater is turned onto the highest temperature possible, and a panda figuirine lays haphzardly on its side, squashed underneath Bon voyage! and 'Ways of the World' textbooks, a reminder of what her life should currently be focused on. The door to her walk-in closet is slightly open, and she catches a glimpse of black funeral dresses and pink polka-dotted dresses, and everything else that she had previously adored. Perhaps, something's wrong with Dylan - that seems to be the only possible explanation, however.
Her labtop lies on top of her lap, white headphones are shoved into her ears, not plugged into the computer, just dangling helplessly as they watch a girl avoid her destiny. Dylan's fingers reach for a chocolate bar, and the melted chocolate spreads across her fingers like blood, as she wipes it across her face, on top of layers of lotion and moisturizers and anything that will fix her - anything.
Dylan tilts her head upwards, towards the sunlight, and wonders why her computer, which had months previously ago been filled with bookmarks for fashion tips and liposuction phone numbers is now filled with youtube and television shows - she's changing, and she doesn't even know it. Of course, it's not a good change - no change is.
It's not her fault that her mother died two weeks ago, and how her older two sisters are suddenly being rewarded for their mother's death by taking over her television show - good riddance, they'll know how to make it even more dramatic - and how they were the ones who received all the money from her mother's will and how they were the ones that the public was thinking off to honor as the People of the Year, Women of the Year, and how everybody loved Ryan and Jamie and everybody, literally everybody, thought that Dylan Marvil was a disgrace.
Of course, Dylan sometimes thought that she should poke her head out of the house, once in a while, maybe catch the eyes of the paparazzi to show that she wasn't going on drugs or being a teenage bulimic, or going on a downward spiral, because even if she did something like that - which she definitely wasn't - it wouldn't be because of her mother.
She wouldn't let it be.
.
Her first visitor comes about three minutes later after they're announced by the maid - one of the few loyal ones who stays even due to the decreased amount of pay - by the name of Claire Lyons. Of course, Claire was meant to be Dylan's first visitor; after all, out of their friend circle, the notorious pretty committee which was now reduced to a queen who lived across the pond, and a replacement who wasn't quite up for the job, and another girl who decided that she had better things to do in her life than pretend to be a princess, and then there was Claire who was the only one who sort of understood what being a normal girl was like - or as normal as Dylan was.
Nevertheless, she's slightly relieved when the familiar face of Derrick Harrington doesn't step through those doors - he's giving her time, and she understands that one day, there's not going to be any time left, and she'll just be left with ticking clocks and twittering alarms in order to keep herself alive - because that would wake her up, force her back into the world. Dylan's just not ready yet.
Claire smiles brightly, a contrast to Dylan's grim expression, "Well, I brought everything that I used when Cam and I broke up," she doesn't hesitate to speak his name anymore, and Dylan wonders if she's missed something important because the last time that the two of them had talked about him, Claire had run off in tears, and hid in her bathroom for three hours - of course, she had never locked the door, but everybody knew to leave her alone. Dylan's mind went over Claire's words once again, and realized what exactly she had said.
"My mother died two weeks ago," Dylan states, as if she's afraid of the truth, hesitantly, "Therefore, the same Audrey Hepburn movies and Sour Patch Kids candies that you used to get over a simple boy with Layme Abeley aren't going to work on me. Okay?" She looks slightly shocked, as if she thought that Dylan's mother's death wouldn't affect her this much - wouldn't affect her at all, and Dylan sighs, dismissing Claire with a simple wave of her hand.
And then, she's all alone - just the way that she likes it.
.
Perhaps letting Dylan be alone - it's the biggest mistake that anybody could have made.
She's inside of a room, several sharp objects and the sweet porcelain beckons, but she doesn't listen - she's not going to fall into the trap and purge the names until she's lying on the floor with puke surrounding her mouth, blood spilling into a disgusting mess on the floor. Dylan's gone through the experience of that before, and it's just going to be so much easier if she could fall back into downward spirals, but she's going to stay strong, lie down on her bed, and practice control - there's only one other way to have control.
To not do anything, or in particular, to not eat anything - some people might call it starvation, but Dylan knows better. It's just a way to prove that she's better than everybody else, and it's the only way that's left - and if there is another way, she's not going to think of it - hers is better.
.
They send her to an institution - eventually, of course.
Somewhere along the lines of two weeks from when they had left her alone, Ryan and Jamie sort of remember that they have a younger sister who needs to be kept out of the eye of the public, and taken somewhere where she can get help - and then, maybe she'll turn into a picture-perfect orphan, one who can be featured on several talk shows, just like the two of them are now.
Dylan numbly follows the orders - if her life has been planned out for her, from the start to the finish, she honestly doesn't care where the guards are going to take her, as long as they're going to take her somewhere (an empty mind is a devil's workshop) - and after all, she's too weak to resist their efforts. She doesn't even care anymore -
Happiness is not on the menu, and sometimes, it hurts instead.
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notes | my drabbles have been getting shorter and shorter lately ; for the coppertone wars' twelve days of christmas, level three, part two, (: