Peter Pan Ouat Imagines (ON HOLD)

Empty Bottle.

All credits to Katy McAllister for the creation of this song.
Words= 1140
Bolded words are the song lyrics.
•. •. •. •. •.

Mama was a bit naive, and her daddy was a blinded thief he went and stole away what was left of the remains of a family...

What was once a happy family was now a scraped record playing the chords that were once so happy.

She'd hide away behind a door she kept locked

She ran to her room, crying, "Why." She's whisper to herself, folding over the tiny lock on her door handle.

But the walls weren't thick enough to block out the angry noises of the voices that once soothed her to sleep.

Screaming. Yelling. Scratchy throat from the constants loud vocal sounds. That's all that was audible. Nights were sleepless, the pleads of help she'd cried every night with a pillow pinned to her head to try and block out the yelling only fell into deaf ears.

And she lies, tonight, underneath the caving roof.

Insanity. She pulls her hair in attempt to keep sane but even the bravest of minds attack themselves. She
Was
Trapped
In
Her
Own
Body.

And she cries, tonight, wondering what she can do.

"No." She whispered, "NoNoOonOOO." She got a little louder until the only screams she heard were hers. "What do I do."

And she tries, tonight, remembering who she once knew. But they've died, inside.

"It's not my fault." Her Mother swigs the potent smelling alcohol, "I do NOT do this to myself." She slurs, gesturing to her alcohol problem. "Do you believe me?"

Her daughter slinks down the wall attempting to leave, her mother throws the brown stained glass where she was about to step. "Do you believe me??!" She screams.

"I-I-believe you." She says over and over until her Mother leave her, alone, rocking back and forth.
Back.
And.
Forth.
Whispering, "I believe you, I believe y-you. I b-believe you, I believe, I believe, I believe you." Over and over.

This world can be so cruel, she lives her life as a broken tool and she believes she's unable to fix this broken machine.

"My heart." She wrote, "Is so very inefficient. The gears don't work and they squeak with such horrid sound. I can't fix it. I've tried."

And what's the use to throw yourself at love if in the end it never seems enough to get through all life's broken dreams.

Wails and heavy sobs play from her mouth, because the pause button just seems to not work, and the skip button is nowhere to be seen. Aimlessly, she looks at the shattered mirror, then her bloody knuckles.

She watched her father live in regret, heard her mother cry in an empty bed and she swears this is the best life gets.

"At this moment." The pages dampened from years as she writes, "It can't get any better, but it can't get any worse."

And she lies, tonight, underneath a caving roof.

Insanity.

And she cries, tonight, wondering what she could do.

Broken.

And she tries, tonight, but she's or of memories that she once knew.

She skips a page. It's blank. For all the things that were so happy, now forgotten and buried in misfortune and potent liquor.