┌ ꒰⍉꒱─ "Now this is the point- you fancy me a mad. But madmen know nothing.".
-
Vivienna Elrod is having vivid dreams of a boy with long hair and a messy art studio- so vivid, in fact, she gets dragged right into his school; Nevermore Academy. Wit...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
╭ ❛❛ i know i'm young but if i had to choose her or the sun i'd be one nocturnal sun of a gun
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
CHAPTER EIGHT CUPIDS CHOKEHOLD
XAVIER THORPE IS a sun- a sun that rises and lowers and never stops for anything. The same sun poets have been writing about since the beginning of time; we all see the same sun. There is no difference. He is the sun in that he is always there (even if he isn't, you know he's somewhere). She talks to the moon about his beauty as the sun, and the moon tells of their own.
Light hits her face when she enters her dorm, and Vivienna loathes it. She is livid, her anger turned biblical and absolutely hysterical. She has always had this secret belief that she is on the edge of madness- on the edge of losing every part of her; her mind, her body, her sexuality and ambition and appetite and temper- and now she is unsure of whether she was ever just on the edge.
She feels as if she is in a macabre dance with her rotting organs; she has loved so hard it bruised, so strongly it whipped her, so deeply it tore into her flesh and left her hollow. She wishes she could climb out of her body and rinse it, mold the flesh into a new being as if she were Prometheus. She could be her own muse, Vivienna thinks, if only she had the ability to be.
Every time Vivienna calls herself ugly, somebody insists she isn't; she is beautiful, as if being ugly would take away any of her self-worth.
In another life, somewhere far away, Vivienna does not bleed and cry in every place she is supposed to be happy. That life is not here; that she can be sure of, as she cuts at her hair with angry movements, the length of it falling to the floor in horrible, horrible heaps of sadness.
