Apperception

Apperception

I don't remember how quickly we fell together. All I knew was their eyes. It was the way they twinkled in the lack of light, the way they never stopped smiling, the way that we were at our strongest when we were at our weakest.

This is not a story for people who cannot control their emotions. This is not a story for people who get easily attached. This is a story for people who are lost, for people who are trying to find their way, and for people who don't believe in love, whatever genre it may be.

I'm here to show you that's it's real. All of it is real.

* * *

There is no such thing as a princess. Well, I mean, there is the title of princess, but it wasn't applied to me. I grew up in a household of "children are seen, not heard" and "spine straight, shoulders back" and "do not lift up your dress, Margaret!". It was like I was trapped in a glass box. It was like I did everything improperly, like I was breathing the wrong way or something to that degree of insanity.

My father had earned a fortune by spending his life buying stocks, and at the age of thirty, selling all of them. He built an entire market around it. My mother jumped ship when she met a rich guy, and now all she needed to do to secure her keep in the "wealthy world" was get pregnant. So, here I am, Margaret Jessabelle Grimm. Fabulous name, I know.

I grew up with imaginary friends. Everybody in school thought I was stuck-up, and prude, and overzealous in my studies. Excuse me for signing up for all honors classes; the homework gave me an excuse to stay in my room 24/7. In fact, the only friends I ever had were imaginary. Well, and Val. But I don't really talk about her.

Let's see... there was Captain Pistachio. He looked a bit like a pirate version of the peanut guy. There was Mr. Fredrick, a bowling ball with a motorcycle, a top hat, and an English accent. My closest imaginary friend was, ironically, a princess. Her name was Gabbi, and she's what inspired me to break away from this lifestyle and pursue my music career. Mind you, I never wanted fame and fortune and money: I just wanted to play my guitar.

Gabbi helped me write songs. She whispered insults in my ear, and I'd talk back to my parents. My mother, Elissa, and my barely-there father, Carlos, disapproved. Not like I cared. Gabbi was there to make me laugh, and to make me feel better when I was alone. She'd sit there complaining about how her stupid tailors added ruffles instead of taking them away. She'd always say that she could've done it herself, but her parents insisted. She said her hat was too pointy, her shoes too pinchy, her lipstick too bright, her nails too long.

It wasn't until I was about age fourteen that things changed. We were playing Go Fish in my room, ignoring the prep-school uniform hanging from my door, completely bored out of our minds.

She scrunched up the fabric of her candy red dress in her hands, wrinkling her nose. "What's the point of all this? All these ruffles and sparkles and glitter?"

I shrugged my shoulders. My curly, over-gelled brown hair fell across my face. Gabbi sighed. I liked her hair better than mine. Unlike me, she slept with her hair down, so it became tangled in the morning. Wild. A frizzy, untamed mess of ebony that no one dared to deal with.

She gasped suddenly, her green eyes sparkling.

I jumped immediately.

"I know what you're thinking!" she squealed.

She always did.

"Gabbi, you can't be serious," I was completely terrified.

I'd known her throughout my entire life, and she was downright crazy. None of her ideas ever turned out good.