| She's a very pretty girl. Young and small, with gorgeous features and a smile that would make you suck in a breath and hold it in the hopes that it would stay upon her face. Men and women alike were drawn to her personality, she emitted an aura that made them feel safe and wanted, even at their loneliest times. Strangers would go out of there way to have something to say to her, to see that tilt of the head and the strand of hair that would fall across her eyes. She wore a purple coat that was soft to the look and touch and it grazed her knees as she walked. Her style was her own and her hair changed colors with her mood, happy and sad by means of strong smelling dye and repeated showers. Such a lovely girl. And yet she was not so innocent as the shine of her eyes gave away. She knew the bad side of things all too well. There were pale scars up and down her arm, creating an almost grotesque stitching when you could get close enough to see it. And in her mind there lived hopelessness, pain, and regret. All situated together in a mesh of pounding flesh and blood. So how was it that she managed to look so happy and so content with her life? A fake. One that is not what it purports to be, a worthless imitation passed off as genuine. Every morning she wakes up, swinging her smooth, pale legs over the side of the bed, curling her toes tightly as she tries to forget the nightmare that she always wakes up from. It changes. But it's always a nightmare nonetheless. She sits at her vanity, the lights glaring on her skin and she starts the long process of making herself happy. Trying on emotions. Happy. Sad. Frustrated. Angry. She chooses the best one, always that which imitates happiness. She manipulates it until it looks reals and she is ready to begin her day. Her mind full of bad things but with fresh and smiling words waiting on the tip of her tongue. She makes her self up. Choosing clothes to convey the false happy. Something bright. And something flowy. Something so feminine it'll draw attention and yet show everyone that she is pleased with her body. Which she is not. And she pulls on that purple coat. And she makes her way to the door, running through her head wannabe happy thoughts and creative ideas. She's a faker. But aren't we all? The End |
| The Faker by: V |