Best Wishes for Isadora *HIATUS*

Prologue

Isadora was like a ray of sunshine, my sunshine, perfectly portrayed in thin layers of varying water colors.
Swirls of different shades of color hid in her hourglass frame-and even thought her blue eyes seemed hollow to the rest of the world, the ocean within them was a deep abyss full of mysteries. Isadora was like Da Vinci's next masterpiece. The next Mona Lisa. The next Marilyn Monroe, perhaps. Surreal both in yearbook photos and in person, with no imperfections and something deeper than a pretty face. Something no one interpreted until she withered away.
And her hands. Her hands told me so much. Nailbeds perfectly rounded, long and shiny. And her fingers were nimble and thin, as unscathed as a fresh piece of paper-as if they were saying-I'm too clever to make a mess or hurt myself.
But I saw deeper into her greenish veins to see what many people believed to be contentedness with a good life actually be a scaly serpent of bitterness writhing it's way through her sunshine body.
This was where we differed. I was like a sandy beach at noon, blindingly white and pale. Cornsilk hair and eyes as green as those hideous neon beach towels. I'd been flipped too many times, sure, but I basked in the heat gratefully.
When I wasn't around Isadora, you wouldn't spare a second glance. I was completely forgettable, empty like that unused glass vase in my mother's chestnut-colored cabinet. See-through. Breakable.
And my hands were skinny and short. Ragged, bitten, unpolished nails, horrid cuticles, and always coated in marker or paint. Sometimes both.
But then again, it's impossible and useless to compare myself to Isadora because she was perfect and no one would ever live up to her legacy.