lipstick ➰ jwd

lipstick {1} meeting lola jackson

/mentions/ of drug & alcohol abuse and physical abuse, schizophrenia, and extreme anorexia.

word count: 1145

lola's pov:

i'm a sad girl.

a sad girl named lola. a sad girl with no parents. a sad girl who befriends the dead. living people do not befriend me, they think i'm dead, whereas the dead accept me with cold, open arms, and they cannot interrupt my tears.

i confess on a daily basis my struggles of my life to the people who listen, my corpse acquaintances, rotting bodies of generations past.

i live in a graveyard. that's why these corpses are basically my only friends. when i was 13 my parents died in a bombing, but because i wasn't at the house at the time i survived, and just ran. i saw on the news through a shop window the next day that i had been pronounced missing because they couldn't find my 'body' anywhere. i had grabbed as much stuff as i could get without leaving a mark, shoved it in a half broken suitcase, and climbed out of my window into the river at the bottom of my parents old estate. the river ran through a forest to a graveyard, where coincidentally my parents are buried. no evidence of me still living was ever, nor will it ever be, found.

before the bombing we were millionaires. we had everything we could even dream of. we were seen as a perfect family. mr and mrs jackson, and their ever so perfect children; their daughter lola and their son blake.

behind closed doors it was the total opposite. blake took drugs, my dad was abusive and cheated on mother, and my mother an alcoholic. but i was the apparent worst. 'schizophrenic' they called me. i just see the world as it is. those faces, the voices, they're real. real as you and i.

that brings me to my only friend that isn't dead. if you could call her that. her name is ana and nobody else can see her. she is the thinnest person i have ever seen, and frankly she is beautiful. there isn't a bone in her body that isn't visible. she has narrow green eyes that bore into me and sleek black hair, thinnened from malnutrition, as are her lips. but her spite look is simply another example of why 'don't judge a book by its cover' is true. she herself is the most helpful there is. i look almost like her now, regarding her help, apart from the fact that i can breathe without gasping, whereas every breath she takes is more her organs crying for help. her beauty is even shown when she coughs, there is a little blood, signalling the fact that she is as thin as she can be. oh how i envy ana.

i'm seen as crazy, even now that i am 'dead' to the world. i still hear light talk of me from the other aristocrats in our area, the people who were once friends with my parents, the ones who pretended like they were my family.

i don't live on my own, i have a pet cat named socks, of whom i found wandering with no collar on, and as my morals had extinguished, i took him, and named him after i found that his back feet were white, and the rest of him was black as night. socks is a compadre of mine. i feed him as much as i can, and because i eat very little it's basically all the food i accumilate that is dumped in a pile on the ground in front of his dry, empty mouth.

it's a lonely life. to shop i have to either shoplift - nobody 'dead' can be convicted - or sneak to the house of the only person who knows that i am alive; the mortican.

the mortican is named bill but i call him dad, as it's a sort of second chance to have a father for me. he has a son called josh, who is 24, 8 years my senior. bill doesn't let me talk to josh, so from our lack of conversion, he probably thinks i am dead too.

the life of being alive when everyone thinks that you are not is tiring. be seen once and the person who saw you is put in a mental hospital, or you're arrested.

there a few other people that know of me, and i know of them. we are the - what we call - new americana. none of us are friends, nor do we know each other's actual names, only our nicknames. we meet every night to smoke weed or just get on some kind of high and have a few hours where we actually appreciate our lives. tonight i was 'diana', my nickname within the group, and my middle name.

i walked through the thick, tall trees from the graveyard to the abandoned hospital in which we all meet, carrying a handful of unground weed that i had stolen from the house of a teenager who lives nearby earlier that day.

once i had arrived the only person who ever spoke to me, 'william' was his nickname, shortened to liam, grabbed my hand and we ran to our secret spot within the hospital, the old staff bedroom. i sat down on the king-sized bed, liam perching next to me.

see, me and him, we were in a sort of friends with benefits relationship. we would chat from time to time, but it was mostly a quick fuck to get us through the next day. we wouldn't do it every day, but most days i would find myself underneath him, moaning his false name, and him moaning mine.

however, it seems that tonight may not be taking that course, as he just took his bag off, took his portable dvd player - i am willing to bet the hundreds of pounds i don't have that he stole it - out of the bag, and put our favorite movie on, 'corpse bride' by tim burton.

as the movie drew to an end, we checked the time, and sure as anything it was midnight. we went into the main ward of the hospital to see other cliques arriving from their secret rooms. everyone sat in a sort of wobbly circle and put all drugs they had obtained throughout the day in the middle.

ten minutes later the whole room was filled with people high on marijuana, some people tripping on lsd and other people on any other drugs they could grab from the sort of cornucopia we had made in the middle of the circle.

so this is really all i do. i wait until night time so i get a tiny bit out of my unfulfilling life.

songs for the chapter:
•miss jackson, panic! at the disco
•dollhouse, melanie martinez
•morticians daughter, black veil brides