DISCLAIMER: THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. ANY CHARACTERS, PLACES OR THINGS THAT ARE REAL AND THAT APPEAR IN THE STORY ARE PURELY COINCIDAL.
I OWN THIS STORY. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©
Dedicated to defend because I love her writing! If you like musicals and you haven't read eleven o'clock number, go read it now! It's amazing! :)
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Prologue-January 2011
I stood in front of the mirror, admiring my reflection. I knew I was pretty. My inky black hair fell into perfect ringlets on each side of my face, and my skin had that soft, milky tint to it. I was tall but curvy, gracious but strong. My eyes were the only feature I disliked: they were cold, icy cold blue. Sometime ago, when I still had a heart, a soul, my eyes were pretty. They were a happy blue, like an ocean of love for the world. But now, that ocean was frozen, along with my heart, forever.
I don’t know when it started, nor how. Maybe it was the admiration, the way I could always get it my way, or maybe it was Mother’s constant reminder to be best, or the fact I was always alone, whether physically or emotionally.
No one understood. They only watched, they only guessed. Some saw me as the school princess, and would worship me in a way. Others did my biding and kept their mouths shut about me, by fear.
Sometime ago, I’d woken up, realised that I was nothing-nothing but fear, and desires, and hatred. The one thing I wanted more than all was the one I’d never have: love. Love for others, love for the world, love for myself. If some claimed hating me, it was nothing compared to my own loathing. I made myself sick, yet I couldn’t stop.
I felt like a puppet, with no control over my actions. My body moved, mouth opened, doing and saying things I didn’t mean. A snotty remark on someone’s dress, a note pinned on their back: the little things that were just big enough to break someone’s shell, and push them into oblivion. I was messed up and somehow, I knew that it was a punishment for something I‘d done. If only I could remember what it was…?
YOU ARE READING
Talking to the Stars (Completed)
ChickLitBig empty rooms. Yells echoing across the corridors. The stench of Mother's whisky breath. The sound of the clock in the dining hall where Father never eats, endlessly ticking away the hours without him. Sometimes, there are scars that don't go away...
