Hate me-see if i care

Chapter 1

My hands twist my necklace.

The cold, metallic touch cooling my fire-hot, lava-burned skin. Just like a scene in a movie. Except I'm not pining for love, mascara streaked and sweet.           In fact, it's the opposite.

  I practice my smile, lips a soft, plush pink against my pale skin, eyeliner so light, so slight and so inviting it seems to crave attention. Keeping poise and grace, long hair so blond it's white, and my eyes looking more silver than grey.

Slowly, carefully, I rub water over my arms, my face,  the sharp, biting cold numbing my skin, and momentarily stopping the feeling of their fingers, palms, sliding down my arms and waist, beckoning for me to give me a drink, darling. 

      I take my lipstick, vendetta, scarlet, far-too-red-for-me and scrawl it over my lips, applying poisonous red over delicate pink. The lipstick glows, a gift from the party, from a man who thought you should doll up more. The party, where the chandelier lit up the room, people laughing, my family in the centre, boisterously lightening up the room. Father, beckoning me to his side as a prince had requested, sending me away when the man has gone; unnecessary once more.

I had slipped away when the clock strung midnight, leaving the warmth of the ballroom to paint my shadows, striding into the abandoned, winded, sloped corridors, corridors only I, the extraneous  princess knew about. Blue of the lightest shade coloured my skin as I slid into a forgotten bathroom, vines and cracks decorating the mirrors, the walls dull and cold—a rare feature in the kingdom of sunlight.

The bathroom was of simplicity; two toilet stalls, two mirrors and two taps, tranquility coursing through the dusty, still air as sunlight streamed through the single, large window on the wall.

Lost in the silence, my hands caressed the girl in the mirror.

She has a easy-going smile on her face, eyeliner smudged over her baby doll eyes, casting a shadow of rebellion over her clear skin. Her lips seem to be covered in blood, vendetta scarlet, a perfect heart on her face.

What kind of girl would she be, I found myself wondering.

What would she grow into. Would she fight? Would she dare to dream? Dream of all that could be? Of blood and glory? 

Or would she back away, hidden in the shadows 'till my dearest father puppets me back to the spot light, introducing yet another man. Would she stand still as the sick, suggestive strokes slid over her body, the strokes that started when she was 14?

My eyes drooped, almost drunk on the peace, mesmerised by the girl, the shadow of death that hung around her like a thick, heavy mist.

The shadow complimented her, I thought absent-mindedly. It complimented her in the way a black rose compliments a funeral, ghostly beauty, shrouded by the sounds of weeping, the sigh filled with anguish.

Then, the lulling silence was shattered by a set of doors slamming.

Odd. The word flashed through my head, as there would have been no reason for anyone to come out yet.

Fear. It struck me like a arrow strikes its prey as I heard my father call for me, controlling my very being, every muscle strained.

Out. The thought bludgeoned me in my head, eyes wide, blood trickling down my wrist, nails digging into my palm.

Out. Out. OUT. It rang in my brain as loud as church bells, feet stumbling, a new-born giraffe.

The only thing accompanying me was the enraged bellows of my father as my feet flew across the smooth white floor, soft blue light now seeming haunting.