[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...
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IT HAD BECOME A normal for Presley to dream of the strange and the grotesque, and that night, she had dreamt of the bones of the wolf being gnawed by lambs. The wolf, eyes crystallized with tears, had cried to the silver-drenched moon and begged for forgiveness and salvation. The moon smiled down at him, a smile that showed her sharp, vicious teeth, and laughed. The wolf knew, then, that he was tender food for the lambs. No longer able to seek salvation from the old gods.
Presley awoke to the caw of a crow, the faceless moon greeting her at her window. Unable to sleep once more, she removed herself from bed to wander the halls of Hellton as the moon rose into the star studded and vast expense of August night sky. She found herself exiting the doors, and out into the chilly open air, inhaling in the addicting scent of pine and fresh air, and intoxicated by the wind that seemed to tickle her exposed skin.
Looking up at the heavens, she wondered what it would be like to be the twilight sky, how it would feel to be lightless, but still be effulgent. Even for just a fleeting moment, she wanted to know what it was like to be seen.
Not noticed.
Not glanced upon.
But seen.
But then again, how could someone see her for who she was, if she herself could never be able to see her value?
These things swarmed Presley's effervescent mind before she decided to head back inside and wait a little longer for the sun to rise and a new day to begin. The picture of the wolf's bones being fed upon by the lambs still fresh on her consciousness.
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No matter how much books were rebound time and time again, the old leather hardcovers covered in dust motes and cobwebs always told the best stories. Some steeped in the grotesque, some trickling with romance, some spine-chilling from the thrills of the noir. Presley had taken a liking for particular old books with no title on the cover, an excitement and anticipation for the unknown stirring sensations within her the moment she would turn the page to start the story.
It was Mr. Keating's first time teaching his class inside the classroom, but Presley had doubts on whether he would stick to the prescribed etiquettes of teaching. "Gentlemen, open your text to page 21 of the introduction." Mr. Keating instructed. "Mr. Perry, will you read the opening paragraph of the preface entitled 'Understanding Poetry'."
"Understanding Poetry by Dr. J. Evans Pritchard Ph.D. To fully understand poetry we must — "
Presley glanced up momentarily, the feeling of being watched creeping up her spine. It didn't feel like the usual male gaze, no, it felt more dreadful, more sinister, as if the pair of eyes were not of man and flesh, but of something more horrifying. When she looked up, she thought she'd caught a glimpse of glowing yellow irises by the corner of the room, but when she blinked there was nothing there.
