Winterfell screamed in anguish yet again. How long how has it been? Hours? Days? Years? Time moved oddly here — wherever here is. She has absolutely no clue where she is. It was dark all around and the ground was pitch black, and it felt glass-like.
Occasionally, on the side, she would catch sight of what almost looked like a mirror. A mirror to the real world, where she would see that demon flaunting around in her body as though it were a dress to be worn.
Winter had never felt so used... so disgusted. Something else was in her... living her life! Filthy, she felt filthy. Winterfell wanted to throw up. She regretted a lot of things, and she felt remorse for many others as well.
Not calling back home while she was at school (not that there are many phones in Arendelle) but that mattered not, she could have written more. Gale sends letters incredibly quickly. She wished she had more fun — she was only in school once, did she really want to remember being holed up in her room studying and doing homework?
Especially when all her A's would matter not. Not when she would not even get to go to college, so who the hell even cared?
She did.
Winter always thought of it as though she would graduate and simply be proud that she excelled so greatly in school.
And sure, she would be proud but at the same time, those memories would be accompanied by anxiety and lonely times. Who wanted to remember their school days as that?
Her friends also come to mind... Winterfell is tired of hiding who she is. Striving so hard to be someone that she is not. In the grand scheme of things she suddenly finds herself wondering why she always thought it was so important to hide away.
Mal had fucking purple hair for Christ's sake and Winter had been scared to show off her natural white strands? What sense does that make?
Who cares if people judged? She was happy with who she was: she would be happy with herself.
