Because I thought she'd look good in a post-apocalypse setting where nothing is as it should be.
Summary: In which reality doesn't truly exist, not to her.
Warnings: Rambling. I don't know what this is, except what happens when I think too hard about reality and brains and how sensations and perceptions are based on said brain and if all our brains are different, then isn't reality different for everyone?
The sky looks blue, fluffy white clouds swirling, dancing and swaying in the sky to their own private music. The sun is gentle, a warmth that lays on her skin. The breeze is cool, sweet, carrying the scent of the ocean, salty and sweet and light.
Sometimes, though, she catches a glance of Reality, and it terrifies her.
The sky is empty and gray; the sun is harsh and cruel as it beats down on her back. When the wind does blow, which is rare in Reality, it cuts and stings and causes bloodshed. It never rains; the droughts never stop. The world is a desert of rock, one in which the Lords of Evil rule with a cruel, twisted sense of glee.
She, herself, is safe. Her father was, is, powerful, strong and willing to do whatever is necessary to keep his family safe. They live in a bubble of peace, created after her father made a deal with the devil. They see no evil, hear no evil. They are free to speak what they wish, but no-one ever says anything, not really.
She tans by the pool, happy and smiling, hair of bronze pushing away from her naked back because tan lines were so passe. Not that anyone would ever see them, anyway, besides the family, she thinks, amused but not bitterly so. She's never really seen another person, and really, she has no desire to. Why would she want to leave her oasis? It's perfect.
Sometimes, though, she wonders and she looks and she sees.
Then she closes her eyes and lays back down on the chair. She ignores the fact that she's been orphaned since she was sixteen.
Reality is just what you make of it, after all.