bones | Ongoing

2 | the attention that is craved

"what's the point in living if you just forget and die in the end?

what's the point in dying if you never lived?"

~

rosalie wakes in what feels like an arctic house, the frost nipping at her from the moment her burnt- sienna eyes crept open; like a child through a house on Christmas eve.

however, the child is looking for presents, and rosalie just wants a home, a home for when she is actually there, she has someone to lean on.

she nabs a shining silver device on her pristine, charcoal bedside console. rosalie didn't even notice it was signaling for her attention, now scanning the screen for a name.

the thing is, everyone calls rosalie.

but not for instances she wants to think about; remember, know.

her best friend lily; beautiful, intelligent, but she wasn't nice, not in the slightest.

rosalie answered with a bit of hesitation, "hello? you just woke me up, you know?"

"good. we're going to anastasia's house tonight, okay?"

the thing that rosalie didn't mention, is the way that lily truong craves attention. to be wanted.

rosalie seems to understand that.

so, keeping that in mind, she responds, "yeah, okay. i'll see you in a bit."

ending the call, she takes a stance in front of her closet, probing through the mounds of clothes filled with wisps of no identity, as the shirts and pants and shreds of cotton are not her.

stretching into clothes that somehow define her, rosalie turns to the mirror parallel to where she is standing.

the top is far too rough on her delicate skin, the bottoms baring her insecurities to the world around her.

but they liked it when she wore articles of clothing that choked at her self esteem and suffocated her in expectations. so she wore the shirt that was far too rough and the skirt that bared her insecurities that she tried too hard to hide.

rosalie sat down at her vanity mirror, painting her face so intricately, that she wondered if she could become the makeup herself, to relax once and for all because for once she doesn't have to try so hard to keep her image intact. to glue on the mask that threatened so desperately to slip. fall. like an avalanche. snow, destruction, malice. they all come hand in hand.

they seem to be interlinking on rosalie's facial features, as she lines her eyes with the darkest pencil, and fills her lashes with the most dense mascara that she owns. hands shaking as she softly applies the beige thick liquid to her face and locks it in with setting powder. sealing her face, sealing her fate.

standing haphazardly, rosalie squeezes her feet into the new line of louboutins gifted to her by her parents in hopes that their scandals will be kept safe, and not their daughter.

her feet try to escape from the mold they've been put into but to no avail; rosalie shoves them on, pain shooting up like fireworks, exploding in different spots every time.

rosalie doesn't like these shoes. she feels that they hit a little too close to what she's feeling.

rosalie doesn't like feeling.

just as she finishes touching up what she's created, her phone pings to let her know that her ride has arrived.

the sky was a deep cobalt that night. bits of fallen ice shift into her line of vision as she makes her way across the driveway, to the car resting on the opposite side of the street.

but fallen pieces of ice.

and snow.

avalanche.

destruction.

malice.

and suddenly its too much, in too little time. breathing begins to heighten. lungs begin to cease. and as miscellaneous bits of hair are pushed out of her mahogany vision, finally air is being taken in.

thoughts and wind and hair are traveling too fast and somehow rosalie is in the car.

because, fallen pieces of ice and miscellaneous bits of hair have no place in a car like lily's. in a house like rosalie's. in a world like ours.

the second lily and her's feet have made the slightest step into the house, they're shoved into another vehicle. told that they're going to a party. and rosalie agrees. because, fallen pieces of ice and miscellaneous bits of hair have no place in a group like theirs.

stepping out of the car, there are whispers. not the hopeful and not the sweet, only the ones that tear at her mind and are plain cruel and mean.

she decides to return the favor. its what rosalie has been expected to do for as long as she could remember; because that's what happens when people are shoved into the category of a heartless mess when they haven't been given the chance to prove that they aren't one.

growling out insults and handing out glares like they're candy, she enters the reckless gathering; and all she hears are labels from the people who gave them to her in the first place.

head pounding, relentless spinning, and unrecognizable taunts lead rosalie to the drink table.

one shot. three shots. four. anything is better than feeling everything. slurring, she stumbles over to the only person that she wanted to see.

mistaken for a person that isn't her, never was her; she is turned away. because, fallen pieces of ice and miscellaneous bits of hair don't belong in a house like theirs.

heading towards the bathroom, she's yanked back by the strongest fingertips and thrusted onto a nearby wall.

labels ruin lives.

yelling. screaming. scratching. all things rosalie should have done. but she just wants to forget.

so she stands, as hands touch places that have been grasped hundreds of times before in ways that they haven't quite been granted permission to do.

eyes blur and minds race. invisible hands that only she can see. latching on to each wound of her mind and then shouting 'it wasn't me!'. invisible hands that only she can see, punching and kicking and shaking up her soul. and only leaving her behind.

rosalie leaves her body and goes to a place where she is free. and happy. and she cant remember.

its okay until its not and shes back there. grasping. pulling. breathing.

labels ruin lives.

and how can you be a heartless mess, when at one moment in time everything truly bleeds?

rosalie is spinning. collapsing. head lulling to the side. and the last thing that she lays eyes on is her own label, almost as if its a tag, written on her shirt like a waitress. and for that second, she believes it.

labels ruin lives.