❝You think we're going to live happily ever after? Newsflash: I'm not a fucking princess, you're no prince and this fucked up thing between us is not a fairy tale.❞
Ian raises one perfectly arched eyebrow, unfazed by my outburst. ❝Fairy tales can be...
This is what happens, when things are not quite a fairy tale. You go into the woods to find your story. If you are brave, if you are fortunate, you walk out of them to find your life. —Kat Howard, Roses and Rot.
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"Where were you?!" Father snaps loudly as soon as I make my way into the living room. He looks livid; veins practically popping out of his forehead, face red and saliva forming around the corners of his lips.
Ew. I quickly take a step back to avoid unnecessary spit from making its way to my face.
He stares me down for a moment and I realize that he wants me to answer his question. Because apparently, it isn't rhetorical. Shit.
Oh, well Father, I was just out, using a bus for the first time in my life, got to Downtown L.A. and then I managed to get this nude modeling job for what I consider minimum wage by pretending to be Barbara Hart the bartender with the fake ID you don't know about... or didn't know about. Details. I take another look at his face and change my mind. "I was... just out."
Father looks like he's on the verge of wringing my neck. Once again, I take another large step backwards because although life is shitty, I've heard hell is shittier.
Finally, Father sighs and shakes his head. The red in his face reduces just a little bit. "Go to your room. The venue is an hour away and I don't have time for this. Wear the dress on your bed and quickly slap some make up on your face. I'm giving you twenty minutes."
It's actually more than enough time but he doesn't need to know this. Instead, I nod and quickly run up the stairs, ignoring the way some of the staff shoot me looks.
Yeah, I need to shower first. I'm sure I stink. Also, they're probably judging me for being "difficult" or whatever but how am I meant to feel concerned about their shitty opinions?
I quickly walk into my room, lock the door behind me and make my way to my bed. As always, it's been laid by someone and I nod to myself as I take in black dress.
I have a pair of black pumps that'll match.
I whistle a tune— Bad Things by Machine Gun Kelly and the former Fourth Harmony member— and make my way into my bathroom. Everything is a blur as I shower, rub lotion, wear my underwear, wear the dress, dab some mascara on my lashes and some purple lipstick on my lips, wear the aforementioned shoes and then change the shoes to a darker shade of black shoes because sometimes, black doesn't match.
I look at my reflection and nod. My long, wavy blonde wig sits on my head like a refined version of Hannah Montana's. My freckles aren't covered and my eyes aren't as dark as I normally make them due to the lack of eyeliner. The dress is sleeveless and short— stopping above my knees with a flair that could put me to shame if I decide to "mistakenly" drop my keys. The top of the dress is tight fitting, showing the world my reasons to get breast enhancement surgery. The midriff is exposed, showing my flat but not toned stomach, the only thing connecting the top and the shirt being a string of black material with large rhinestones located at the sides of the dress. My clavicles are popping out with even more freckles and I take a deep breath to stop myself from thinking negative thoughts.
