GIRL, INTERRUPTED → outer banks [1]

2.01 intro → act two ✓

⋅˚₊‧ 𓆉︎𓇼 ‧₊˚ ⋅

introduction to act two
"i can turn you into poetry,
but i cannot make you love me."

⋅˚₊‧ 𓆉︎𓇼 ‧₊˚ ⋅

"I HEARD SHE HAD SEX with a teacher in the auditorium."

"Well, I heard she sells pictures of her feet online to afford new clothes every week."

"Apparently she got high with Rafe Cameron every day of the summer. How pathetic?"

FARRAH MONTGOMERY was no stranger to rumours. Silly tales fabricated by her peers had followed her for as long as she could remember. Some of them did bother her, like the ones threatening to ruin her high school career and in turn disrupt her eligible plans to leave this godforsaken island once and for all. Others she couldn't care less about. But one rumour swirling throughout the highschool bothered her more than anything. And it went as such; over summer Farrah Montgomery had been dethroned by her very best friend, and resorted to running off with the very boy who killed sheriff Peterkin.

Why did this one bother her in particular? Because unlike some of the others, this one held zero truth. John Booker Routledge didn't kill the sheriff— not that anyone cared of course. Oh, and in Farrah's mind, she most definitely hadn't been dethroned. She had been betrayed, and Millie Parker would have to inevitably face Farrah's wrath.

The bitter taste of betrayal felt like poison on her tongue, her tawny eyes burning hotter than a thousand suns seconds away from bursting every time she heard Millie's name. Farrah Montgomery was not a victim. She played many roles, but the victim role never did suit her very well. When some nasty boy grabbed her ass once last spring it was like she landed a punch square in his jaw just to prove a point. And when in third grade this girl attempted to bully her for having two dads, she sat her straight by throwing a mudpie at the back of her head.

     From a very early age Farrah knew who she was and what she wanted in life. She was confident, so much so that it radiated off of her like the sweltering heat from a campfire. It was dangerous to get too close, and if given the chance, the heat would spread and swallow everything whole, leaving nothing but distraction and chaos in its wake. But from afar? Oh, nothing was more hypnotizing to watch than the oranges flames dancing over her deliciously tan skin. Like a Monet painting, Farrah was an illusion. From afar you could envision a future with her. See yourself tangled up in her limps resting in her sheets— but up close? It was nothing but a big and catastrophic mess.