𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 • 𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑑𝑜𝑛

𝟒. ❙𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭

❛ 𝑴𝑼𝑹𝑫𝑬𝑹 𝑯𝑶𝑼𝑺𝑬 ❜
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•☽.⭒✻❙ 𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓 ❙✻⭒.☾•

❝ 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭? ❞

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𝑬𝑿𝑰𝑻 𝑴𝑼𝑺𝑰𝑪 (𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝑨 𝑭𝑰𝑳𝑴)
𝒓𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒐𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅

❛ i can't do this alone ❜

        𝐴𝑁𝐺𝐸𝑅 𝐼𝑆 𝐴 𝐵𝐸𝐴𝑈𝑇𝐼𝐹𝑈𝐿 emotion, one that expresses itself through the most endearing of ways. Ever since he laid eyes on her, he believed her anger was enchanting.

From the window of the old Victorian-esque manor, the psychotic watched as the angel walked towards her house. The stomp in her step and strong stride showed frustration, something he found to be so alluring. Every negative emotion cannot be faked, it's natural.

With her red floral tights ripped in multiple spots thanks to Leah's sharp fake nail, a black skirt that was thankfully left untouched, but her maroon lace shirt with wide sleeves was almost hiding the bruises on her ribs and arms; they were a little visible through the lace. Of course, that cut on her lip and red knuckles were very visible. She had a small run in with the horrible girls from her school on her way back from the record store, but Rosemary held her own. Didn't mean she didn't want to rip something in half.

Rosemary stomped through her house, each step laced with rage as she headed straight for her room. Her pale green walls with Van Gogh inspired blossoms painted all over paired with her dark furniture was a place she could call home. Although, it seemed someone else had called it home as well. "Hey."

There Tate stood looking at her three electric guitars, one red, one forest green, and one white. He was quite fascinated by them, but more so by the girl. Rosemary crossed her arms in front of her chest and glared at the boy invading her space. "Are you a ghost or something? You just keep appearing."

"Would you still like me if I was a ghost?" Tate turned more to her, his dark red sweater almost matching her own top, as he let his arms hang loosely by his sides. Rosemary, since their one and only interaction, had this boy on her mind. Tate was just there one day, him and all his beauty; that hair that covers that wondrous mind, those dead eyes that hold the deepest secrets, those hands that have felt the most pain. Tate himself was a riddle.

"I barely know you, Tate. What makes you think I like you?"

"'Cause you keep looking at my lips and not my eyes." Tate smirked as he sent butterflies fluttering through Rosemary's stomach. She never thought she could be so obvious. Her inner fluster materialised as she averted her gaze from Tate and tried to keep her hands busy by taking her deep brown bag off her shoulder and holding it with both hands. Rosemary wanted to change the subject. "Why are you in my room?"