How to Live | ✓

two

>>two

The truth about Evelyn was that deep down in her heart, where the darkest secrets of her life lived, she knew that there was something wrong with her.

It wasn't the fact that she'd grown up with the mother she did, who constantly belittled and nit-picked every insecurity of hers until she was nothing than an unravelled mess of blood and bone. Nor did it have to do with the fact that she lived most of her life a lie, always pretending, always hiding. Mostly it had to do with how the darkness of a late night unleashed a black cruelty within her.

Deadly thoughts.

Wicked hopes.

Blinding dreams.

They shrouded her vision and attacked her just when she's about to drift off to sleep.

They're all wrong, wrong, wrong.

She knew that.

But she couldn't help the fire burning inside of her, the blackness trapped just beneath the layers of her brittle skin.

These were perhaps the most prominent feelings that Evelyn felt— this, and the inevitable fear. She was convinced that there wasn't much else left inside of her that didn't convolute with these emotions. Maybe if she tried to dig deep enough, she would find something brighter, but what was the point when she knew it'd just get pushed back down again?

And so, she lived her life in a state much akin to emptiness. It was something she'd came to accept, however, to the point that she didn't really acknowledge it anymore. It was like having a little raincloud that hovered above her head, but never poured; it was easy to forget about, but she also knew that in any one moment, she could be bombarded with a downpour.

Turning towards her bedside table, she glanced at her alarm clock. It was almost 6 o'clock now.

Another sleepless night, she thought.

Not that it bothered her that much— she didn't feel particularly tired— but Mother always noticed these things.

Pushing herself off of her bed, she began to get ready for school, deciding it was pointless to waste time in her bed if she couldn't rest her eyes.

Every day in the morning, she followed a strict face regimen, as instructed by Mother. It included various types of products, and took her more time to do than it probably should've. Evelyn wasn't too sure that it was doing any good to her skin, considering how dull and lacklustre it still was.

But she did it regardless.

As with all other things in her life.

While she washed her face, she tried not to look at her reflection too intensely.

If she was being honest with herself, sometimes she was scared of what she saw looking back at her. It was like someone pulled a cruel, cruel joke on her with the slope of her nose, the slant in her eyes and the curve of her face.

All hers.

Just like hers.

She was convinced that every life started out as untouched clay— so smooth, so fragile— waiting to be moulded. She couldn't help but wonder how deformed her clay was.

What shape had she become?

How long until it hardened?

And worse of all, was it was too late?

She shivered at the thought, pushing it back into the far recesses of her mind.

After she got dressed, she headed downstairs. Mother had already awoken, of course, waiting for Evelyn at the kitchen island, chopping up some fruit for their oatmeal. Her silky hair was tied back into a bun, not a single wisp out of place.