sum | She stands, dressed in a pale white gown — like a princess; and flies to neverland / or, the story of a girl who was never good enough, a boy who believed in her, and realizing that monsters are within oneself / for the halloween '13 fic exchange, for the lovely rachel!
notes | for the halloween '13 fic exchange at cw; hope you like it!
dedication | for the lovely rachel, (: prompts include; silk scarves, truffles, "kiss me hard before you go," & eos lip balm with pairings: massington or anything with dylan :)
.:summertime sadness:.
massiederrick
Once upon a time, they ruled the world;
They start off young enough, ruling that is. Mere children swarm through their pods, fish in a sea, flocking to the doorways in a balmy summer, popsicles sweating upon the head of their lip, chocolate swirls sticking to the back of their tongue. Leaves fall upon the ground, a shade of malchalite, falling upon the neatly trimmed grass which hides dirt and mounds of poison beneath, the perfect pretense of everything, really.
Several individuals and cars, black limousines, crowd around, slipping up and down the circular driveway, leading to Prebysterian Elentary School. Some lower class children run to the arms of their parents, talking excitedly, breathing quickly. One child, a girl with brunette curls, sits coldly, looking longingly at the alpha of her circle. Five girls sit in a small circle, upon the table ( of course, the grass is dirty ) facing each other as they stare down the newest member of their group, a little girl by the name of Massie Block, as if they're interrogating her.
"How do we know if you're going to be a loyal member?" Hanna, one of those annoying followers, asks, tilting her head slightly as if it'll take attention off of her poorly trimmed hair and bright coral lipstick, but it doesn't. Not at all. "We've had another member like you, and her name was Kayla—"
"So, she's dead now?" If nothing else, Massie manages to confuse her so called opponent; though they're only eight years old and this pretense of maturity seems a little silly, they live on the upper east side — pretenses are a part of their life.
Ahnna stands up, a smirk plastered across her treacherous face. "I guess we could take you on probationc"
"Thank you, thank you! I won't you down, I swear," Massie promises, a look of ecstasy on her face as she stands up, still squealing a little to herself.
The other four Ahnnabees stand up, teetering on their hooker stilettos and walk away; the crowd clears for them, and closes before Massie can manage to walk through. Instead, she falls ( and darling, it won't be for the last time ) and scrapes her knee upon the harsh, balmy pavement. Blood trails down her leg, and it only reminds everybody how they're all only children; there's another one of those little boys, one of those ones that starts out right and is meant to end like a prince on the fairytale, who walks over to Massie. "I'm Cam. Do you want a hand?"
So, Massie accepts the hand ( because what is a prince without a princess? ) and steps into a fairytale.
.
It starts off well enough, ruling the world.
Their parents are nothing short of ecstatic when they hear of the news, that their children have started courting one another, never thinking about how starting too young usually never ends that well.
And, in a way, Massie knows that she's had enough to know that it just isn't right to deal with this — deal with him anymore, but it can't stop now, can it? How is she supposed to tell her parents, the very people who hadn't supported the relationship — or what was a relationship, Massie thinks grimly; in the first place. And if nothing else, she's asserting her dominance over the rest of her so called friend circle;
She loses him by falling in love, or making a mistake is what she tells herself when it's done.
Someone like her isn't meant to fall in love with, or at least drunkenly make a move with Derrick Harrington; she places her headband straight on top of her head and tries to avoid the similarities between her life and that of a fictional character, no matter how similar they might be.
Massie begins to suspect that others will catch onto her trick, but she can't have been the only one who's wanted a happily ever after, with a prince. She's always wanted to be a princess, after all. In this fictional atmosphere, everything that had been done worked — sure, people were hurt, sometimes brutally murdered, in the process; but it worked well enough.
And that's all Massie wants, to be happy that is; and more than being happy, to be perfect. Perfection reaches a new meaning on Massie's thirteenth birthday.
Amber tresses fall upon delicate shoulders, and she leans into the shoulder of Cameron Fisher; everybody exclaims about how these two socialites, childhood sweethearts, the golden couple, really, were written in the stars. Nobody notices the stiffness between Massie and Cam, how they're almost bored with one another, because after all, they're only thirteen years old. Maybe if they had been brought together in a different way, almost out of their own will, because they had been seven years old. Seven; and nothing mattered anymore, because everything was gone.
Nobody notices how Cam looks longily at Claire, as they entangle fingers underneath the tablecloth, seated across from one another. There's a stillness in the air as Kendra comments, "I think that that dress you're wearing, darling, it would look much nicer on Claire, don't you think?"
Everybody freezes, and Massie looks down at the tablecloth, trying to ignore the tears that are forming in the corners of her eyes, because she's in public; she can't possibly manage to do this, not now, not on her birthday ( but darling, birthdays aren't magical, not anymore ). Claire stands up all of a sudden, saying, "I think that it wouldn't really look that nice on me. It's more Massie's type, don't you think?"
Kendra slightly nods, almost in distaste as her eyes skim over Massie and again light up with pride upon glancing over Claire, and her perfections, and then to the flaws and mistakes of her own daughter, and Massie abruptly excuses herself, ignoring the disappointment and anger in her mother's eyes. She knows that she'll be paying for her mistakes later. She walks up the butterfly staircase, from the back entrance, into the kitchen; the servants, the cooks, the nannies, they've all been given the day off, and Massie supports herself on the back of the oven.
Her arms are half burned, scalding almost, but it's pain, and she needs to feel the pain — Massie needs to feel human, because without being human, what's really left for her? Jams and cakes and cookies too, rose tarts, hummus and bread; she shovels them down her throat and they swallow down harshly, sticking. She falls into pits of despair, tumbling down rocks, and upsteep precipes to the zenith of a golden age, glossy crimson fingernails gripping onto the edge for dear life, and suddenly all of Massie's troubles have been solved, because all of the pain can just be numb — glory turns into a knife.
It's a small contraption, but when it cuts across her flesh, tearing skin and bone until the tendons and flesh flow freely, blood turning white as it escapes; Massie can't blame the blood. If she was able to escape her own self, she would grasp, lunge towards the first opportunity to leave behind, but then again, what's left of Massie but an empty shell? But, it's not enough.
After all, Massie's always wanted more, an unsatiable greed settling near the pit of her stomach, rising; and then the troubles — the numbness leaves, the pain reurns, and she can't take any of this, not now, not anymore. After all, every person has a breaking point, no matter who they may be; even an ice queen does. Sweet porcelain cries out to her, and she finds herself drawn to its magnetic force. It draws her closer and closer, and sweet porcelain, oh, it's ever so pretty; pretty things can't do any harm, now can they?
But, she's leaning over, admiring how perfect something can be in existence (because sweet porcelain, must be alive) but she's fallen for a trap. The greed rises out of her stomach, and everything comes out. When it's all over, Massie's taken aback a bit, and stares at everything, and examines her fingernails — the crimson red is a true shade now, she laughs, blood stains imprinted centrally, as if in a design. Kendra calls from downstairs but the numbness has enveloped a monster; Massie stares at her distraught reflection, and nothing of what she's recognized to be herself is starting to fade. Massie keeps the faucet's water running, and cleans the mess.
She fixes her hair, adjusts her ivory headband, and wipes away the blood and the puke, applying a fresh coat of EOS lip balm, and everything is forgotten.
.
The next time that it happens, Massie didn't really mean to relapse.
She's sitting in the middle of the foyer, upon a small pedestal when she hears a sound coming from one of the bedrooms upstairs; it's senior year, and it's one of those typical pre-graduation parties, but Massie can't help but feel the least bit curious as she walks carefully up the staircase, careful not to make a sound, but the staircase of the UES penthouse is creaky and old, perhaps as old as the Upper East Side itself, and the slightest creak as made, and everything is silent on the penthouse's upper floor.
Massie hears a voice whispering to be quiet, and she slides up the door and peers through the eyehole only to see something that she knew that she should have had coming all along. Massie takes a deep breath, and tries to come with some really good comeback or line that will make Claire and Cam feel horrible about themselves, but when the door swings open, all she can manage to do is run away before breaking down.
She finds herself in a bathroom, one of those rare broken ones, and stares at her reflection in the mirror. She notices her limp brown hair, arranged in a tangled mass, her ivory headband snapped cleanly in two, the satin falling into the sink, turning a marred shade of grey from the mineral water that comes rushing out. There's a knock at the door, and she screams that the bathroom's out of order, because Massie can't bother to see anybody right now. She buries her head in her hands and slides down until she reaches the floor, and the dress rips, and everything's wrong AND LIFE IS HORRIBLE AND NOTHING IS GOOD;
The lock clicks, perhaps letting somebody in, and Massie wipes away the tears slowly before letting out a strangled sob, and breaking down all over again, but a person has entered, and she puts on a facade of normality, even if her appearance shows otherwise.
She scoffs slightly, wiping away her tears as she stands up, trying to keep up a mixture of a cocky, overconfident attitude and condescending mannerisms, "What do you want, Derrick? What are you even doing here?" It's a valid question, though partially true. People like Derrick Harrington and Massie Block didn't associate unless they were plotting to take somebody down, primarily slutty exchange students who turn out to be slightly insane individuals.
Derrick looks shocked, more shocked, more of a human reaction than she's ever seen him display. "What happened to you?" He asks, slowly, walking a little closer; Massie inches away slowly.
She tries to blow it off, "You probably know, don't you? After all, you are Cameron's best friend—" Massie refrains from calling him Cam. She couldn't bother to think of him anymore, but all she can think about was the look of disgust and distaste on her mother's face, on Cameron's face, on everybody's face, because truly, she'll never be good enough.
He offers his hand, nothing sweet about the gesture at all, so Massie continues to sit on the bathroom floor. Derrick pushes her up, forces her to wipe the puke and blood off her face, tries his best not to look terrified, and pushes her back into the heart of the party.
.
Derrick turns out to be one of those interesting sort of friends;
The ones that send mixed signals about well, everything, and one day, the two of them feel like they're just friends, and the next, the situation turns completely awkward because people keep on mistaking them as a couple, but they're really not. They're more like siblings, Massie reassures herself, or maybe cousins, distant cousins.
They brush lips, once, at a party, under the influence of alcohol is the excuse that Massie gives herself. Everything tumbles out of control, and happens in a rush from them; they're in love, then he leaves her, then his sister dies, then her father divorces her, and everything's messed up, and in spite of it all, he makes the worst mistake of all, and then it's all over.
She hits an all time low, crashing burning;
Darling, can't you see her in the stars? She watches them every night, through glossy lights, and hears their whispers — how everything's going to get better and perhaps, as a child, she used to believe them. Nevertheless, in a world full of princesses and magical moments, she should have noticed that she would always be accursed to be a lady in waiting. And, maybe, that used to be enough. As a child, she sits in high chairs, pencils clenched in her right hand, a tight grip, mustering out energy in the form of scribbles, and pounding the floor; but, nobody was ever there to listen.
She's invited to a pool party, one of those social events where bikinis are a dress code — something her mother would simply never accept her overweight daughter to wear. So, Massie sneaks out of the house at midnight, and breaks her mother's trust, not for the last time, however.
Entering thirty minutes after the pool party started apparently is cutting it close if one wants to be fashionably late, but Massie enters and feels as though this Skye Hamilton, the hostess of the party, is a bit of Gatsby — it's something from the works of Fitzgerald, the dreamlike trance she's in; nevertheless, all dreams must come to an end. They always do, don't they?
Human existence is fickle, after all; thoughts of significance are brushed out of her mind, when water balloons rocket across, hitting her straight in the torso, and she laughs, remembering why she's here in the first place.
To have fun; but then, everything goes horribly wrong, and suddenly, she's in the bathroom, a choice to make — and she makes the wrong one ( but she's just a child, isn't she? Children always make the wrong decisions, at first ). There's blood gushing out of her mouth, spilling onto the sterilized tiles, and she takes a toothbrush and inserts it down her throat; and out come all of the jams and the jellies, the candies and the cakes, and she can't stop once she starts.
Massie walks out of the bathroom, her stomach no longer bloated, her eyes fresh and alive, and a fake friend comments, "Gosh, Mass, what did you do in the bathroom? You look like you lost fifteen pounds!" Even her mother comments about how Massie's been looking more perfect lately, and Massie only replies that she's been doing some more exercise and dieting with a private trainer.
Her mother looks proud; and Dylan needs the pride, she needs somebody to love her; after all, she's never loved herself. So, she knows that if she stops then the disappointment will return and that can't happen, so she carries on.
.
So, every night, she meets her private trainer.
She stares down into the expanse of swirling water, colored blue, and sticks a toothbrush down a throat, and everything comes out; but, she's a monster now. Massie steals food from the lunch cafeteria, trays and trays of cookies, and is caught; she's forced to do some community work in the lunchroom after school, but nobody knows that the community work is only making it worse.
Derrick catches her in the cafeteria once, after school, and stares at her with disgust, like she's a monster, but she is a monster, now.
She'll never forgive Claire for this, Derrick for this, anybody for what had happened; and, she relapses.
.
By the time that Derrick realizes that he's made a mistake, it's far too late.
There are truffles stuffed down her throat, and Massie squeezes her throat with silk scarves, and she can't take it anymore and she's a monster AND SHE DOESN'T DESERVE TO LIVE— so she doesn't. Somebody, anybody, catches her before she paints wings and flies away, and she's sent to the Ostroff Center. Massie convinces the therapists, the doctors, her horrible, horrible parents
But it's not enough; the house — this colossal mansion, brings back all of the memories that she's tried so hard to suppress. She walks through her old bedroom, and there's a flash in which she sees a little girl holding onto a pillow and slowly raising a knife. She walks through her old bathroom, and there's a flash in which she sees blood teardrops falling upon tiles, sprayed over and whitewashed by the cleaning lady.
She walks through the foyer, and sees a younger version of herself breaking china pots, and smashing the shards into her own skin — but feels nothing but the neverending, overwhelming numbness.
And, Massie can't take it anymore, these haunting memories, and she runs out into the street, away from everything, and that's how it ends. She stands, dressed in a pale white gown — like a princess; and flies to neverland, where she would never have to grow up and see the dangers and how horrible the world really is. But her painted wings fly to the sun.
.
She finally gets the attention, posthumously of course.
Massie Block is on the front cover, her glossy ( limp ) curls plastered and smeared with blood, mascara dripping down tears, ribs permanently fractured, and there's blood still dripping out of one side of her head — but nobody really cares, which makes sense.
If they haven't ever cared, why should they care now?
.
notes | helloooo, c:
leave a review?