One Word | H.S.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

She's back.

The Caterpillar is preparing his hookah.

~

Banter.

~

I look like a partially eaten, completely mutilated, horrendous Starburst.

Wishin' I lived on a higher floor, up a few stories, so I could hurl my body out of the fucking window.

With the red hair dye in my right hand, the left occupied by disgusting water, my world continues to crash before my eyes.

I'm having my own psychotic break, the surfaced feelings for Pretty Boy ruining my life to the furthest extent.

The harsh music sounds throughout my worthless bungalow, the noise quiet in comparison to my booming chest, my lively heartbeat that refuses to quiet.

One more thought about dearest Pretty Boy, my Blue, and I'm going to "accidentally" fall into my neighbors fireplace. Burning my skin as contented laughs escape my throat, smiling through the crisp pain.

For once, you should think about him.

Three days, seventy-two fucking hours filled with uncontrolled smiles, a butterfly effect residing in my already churned stomach, a strange urge to buy purple paint.

It's absolutely maddening, pushing me to brink of mental corruption, as my mind will never stray from the persona of Pretty Boy.

Everything, the smallest of details, presenting themselves as monumental revelations that pull me in more, magic my already spell-casted brain.

My sleep schedule is essentially nonexistent, a whirlwind of emotions causing my eyes to tire, but keep the gears within my skull grinding constantly.

With a genuine smile, Alice finds herself cascaded in a never-ending field of violet flowers, the world seeming endless as time stops momentarily.

The plants are littered in pricks, a variety of sharp thorns on the branches, but the curious girl has failed to notice, refused to acknowledge the negatives of such a pain.

For the anguish is not always poor, not completely horrible for the girl. She's engulfed in a plain full of possibility, filled to the brim with hope.

Nothing is ever perfect, no flower crafted the same, but that's why Alice is so peaceful, so happy.

She's accepting the imperfections, slowly. Similar to the breaking of a glass ceiling, or a shattered vase, her eyes draw near.

Glass littered around as most view such a thing as horrifically dangerous, wrong in every possible manner.

Stepping over the ragged pieces, the weary fail to view the corrupted catastrophe, the fretful mess, as anything other than immoral, something to clean.

They want something whole, brokenness unattractive. Yet, Alice doesn't. For the girl recognizes the tragic beauty, narrows her eyes on the sight.

For the broken pieces, those are the ones that truly reflect the light when the sun gleams.

And dearest Alice, she's slowly beginning to see that.

Come into Wonderland, they say. It's beautiful, everything an endless blued sea of tripping nonsense, the kiss between Harry and I only furthering my hallucinogenic craving.