note—This is pretty dark and twisted compared to my usual tastes, but you were warned—completed. Happy Birthday Jay~
Alice
those stars whirl above your head. twinkling coldly. mocking you.
—
She knew that they talked behind her back. She heard the whispers, the theories—they let their imagination run wild. Fools. They all had something to hide, every last one of them.
She made sure to allow a deranged smile to settle on her face. They all walked away hurriedly in the opposite direction; no one dared make eye contact with her.
(They were all unbelievably easy to scare.)
In this place, she was labeled as a rebel, a goth, an emo, an insane lunatic…or whatever other ridiculously unoriginal name they had conjured up as the branded image of her. It was, as the Cheshire cat says, all smoke and mirrors.
Tip tappity-tap. She danced away, singing a song that contained far too much screaming and bass at the top of her lungs, her long sash swinging behind her—an afterthought. Her unimpressionable soprano tone left no imprint pulling in their heads, though she thought (as she laughed and laughed) that it complimented the dark swirls of music.
It occurred to her while she was painting charcoal-rimmed eyes in front of a cracked mirror—an epiphany, perhaps—that maybe, just maybe,she might be painting on a mask, also. And why not? Every day was a Halloween night to her, dressing up and gliding out to scare the little ones. Every day, a costume was artfully brushed on with care.
—
Her mother disapproved (who cares what they think anyway?) of everything she did. She was an accident and a freak of nature; she marred and blurred the colors on her mother's watercolor dream of perfection.
She knew that her mother screamed silently behind glassy eyes. Her gaze was wiped blank as a rainbow-colored blow of a pendulum swing was painted behind her eyes.
The vision is wiped clean off a gray slate, but it still burns in her mind.
(Like the alcohol burning down her throat.)
—
A freak. She's a freak. She's accused of witchcraft—and ashes of danger float around her designer clothes and ballet shoes. Fire twines around her legs, ignites in her chest, and burns up her throat. A silent scream is ripped out of her throat, and through the hazy darkness, her eyes sweep the crowd to connect with a face as warped as a funhouse mirror.
Mother. Her own mother is guilty of sin. This sin. She hates and hates behind a blank mask. Mother's fear warring with selfish desire—it's repulsive.
The darkness is just a vortex, a void, sucking her in. One can feel her edges begin to melt and flyawayflyaway as a transparent shadow.
She laughs, but the brittle sound brings her no comfort in her madness.
Don't pretend to love me. You don't.
She leaves her mother standing there, white-faced and wide-eyed, speechless because she knows that there is truth in her daughter's words.