[rewritten ver. of unscripted]
we don't live in a fairytale.
but she was everything the fairytales failed to mention.
like icarus, he was destined to fly too close to the sun.
and fall. maddeningly. deeply. in love.
- neil still does not die in this...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
APHRODITE BLED GOLDEN to the moon and washed indigo over the night. There was a frequency to the warm shade of winter against the backdrop of a thousand glittering stars, like frost that shattered into millions of shards and decorated the heavens with its deadly frigid beauty. Even the sea was calm, frozen to its core, and dark as the twilight that kissed its surface at the end of the hiemal horizon.
Presley's window was open, the wintry air raging in the coziness of her velour quarters. Her hair was down, dark and silky as she threaded her fingers through it. It now passed a little below her chest, saturating her striking allure. Her mother was angry that night, she didn't know why, only that mother was mad about something that the entire House missed. And even the Casa dell'Atlante was weary when Cosima Ross was angry.
A knock then sounded at her door, soft and quiet, like the rest of the night. The door opened soon after, but she paid no mind to it. From the steady footsteps alone, she knew it was Sebastien Ross, or who she often called dad. He had a soft smile on, his dark hair falling onto his eyes as if he'd been too lazy to fix it once more. "How's my darling, feeling better?"
"She's angry." Said Presley, gaze steady on the world outside her window.
Sebastien Ross let out a sigh. "Your mother has been going through a lot of stress lately, is all."
"She hates me." Presley murmured. "She hates me because I look like you. Because I belong to you. Not her." Her words, grave and lilting, dissolved into the winternight. "She's not like us, and she will never understand. Never be a Ross."
"Now, that's not true. Your mother is a Ross, just like us." Sebastien attempted to inch towards her, but the air around Presley grew colder, as if he would turn to ice if he got too close. "Priscilla, dear . . ."
"What? We both know I'm right, Father." She never called him father. And when she abruptly turned around to face him, her eyes were glowing silver, mirroring the moon that caressed the sea. "She needs to disappear."
Forever.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
Presley could still remember the first day she attended preparatory class. When she'd walked in, the other children dispersed like a colony of ants, as whispers infested the room. Some said her beauty was intimidating, almost unsettling, with hair as dark and velvet as the summer night, and skin as radiant as a moonlight sonata. But most of all, it was her scent that caught their attention. She smelled of a fragrance that categorized between spice and bittersweet, mimosa and cardamom, like a melancholic daydream of your childhood home.
