Kendra ~17 years young
Lord Nimbostratus,
was very generous to accommodate us with a plethora of frozen tears at this time of the year in the state of Virginia. I reminisced the times when I would sit and watch through the window in amusement, as they would sprinkle down from the dark after-noon sky cascading as the wind blew them from side to side until they would land softly, joining the already accumulated white blankets caressing the streets.
But there were more important things to watch now, much more important things that had to be observed, the iris could only dilate so much for the curiosity the pupil withheld. I stared back at the looking glass, dim moonlight from the fine cratered crescent which hung in the sky like at the beginning of a "Dream Works" movie, entered through the creak of my window and blossomed into effulgent waves that wound up the sides, and encased the mirror, in a grip like an anaconda squeezing its prey. But there has never once been a being the color of lush moonlight, so mesmerizing that one would simply ignore their own reflection, just to gaze upon that for several hours, satisfying their eyes' desire for beauty for every mere second it seemed to exist.
I shifted my focus to the doll like image formed from the sufficient amount of undiffused light being provided. The potential twin was being held captive behind the shield, which mimicked its opponents every move. Usually, my friend within those hidden prison bars would speak to me. It's voice -- as if angels were suddenly humming and feeding you the euphonious notes escaping from a gold-plated triangular frame formed by a hollow sound-box; divine. But today my fine, reflected friend mumbled only a few words:
"Pretty."
That's what everyone calls me, I've been brought up to believe that.
"Pretty"
like a spring flower. (who wants to be cliché?) Pretty as an angel. (Do they even exist?) Pretty like a doll. (But
"isn't"
a doll just cheap painted plastic?) Cliché, unknown and fake, I was brought up believing everything important about me was about how
"good"
I looked. My reflection was the only thing I trusted. It was my best-friend. It was another me. Until that reflection started telling me that I wasn't pretty
"anymore”.
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YOU ARE READING
The Demon's Song
Non-Fiction~Some songs can play you..... How far will you go to achieve perfection? 17 year old Kendra will go through everything and anything to achieve this, whether it's a nose job, eye colour change, etc. And with her best-friend the mirror, it might even...
