There was a place she went when things got shitty, a mind room to call 'haven'. There, she could be anything, or anyone. Cartoon characters came to life. The dead lived again. Things that could never be ok in the real world were perfectly acceptable, even encouraged. And she could do what she pleased.
White walls, blank slates... the only unchanging, solid feature was the gaping hole in the ceiling where a gorgeous night sky could be seen, ivy tendrils creeping in from an unknown, outside world she couldn't imagine. Perhaps it was heaven. Perhaps it was the hell she was trying to escape, her own madness.
And perhaps, like all things, it was what it was perceived as: just ivy.
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Yes, that is sarcasm at the end there. You're welcome.
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She Just Wasn't
Short StoryI was never her, and she is not me, but still she's here, living my life. ~><~ I am trying to find myself. Sometimes that's not easy. ~ Marilyn Monroe
