A World of our Own | K.TH *COMPLETED*

Our Worlds

"Good night, V." I mutter shyly as I give him a small smile.

"Good night."

Then the door slams behind him, and I shiver slightly as I retreat back to my home. When I come back to my bedroom, it is nowhere near the ecstatic bounce I had earlier. Instead, all I can remember is how similar V's mother was to my real mother.

Their gazes had been so similar— filled with a blaze of love and concern, a sprinkle of pride and just the right amount of adoration. It brought back memories— memories that I wanted to keep buried.

The warning in my eyes come again, and this time I do nothing to stop the flow of oncoming scarlet tears.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I stare at the trail of red a single teardrop makes as it slides down the smooth surface of my pale cheek. The shades of green and blue are tinged with crimson as more fill to take its place.

So ugly I looked in the mirror. The definition of imperfect, a defective.

What hurt me the most was when people whispered behind my back, clearly knowing that I could hear them. They muttered that if I just didn't have those freaky colored eyes, those weird eyelids— then I could've been so much better. I could've been so much prettier.

And then they saw my tears, and then they ran, screaming in terror.

Monster, they said. A defective monster. A broken monster.

The tears come faster now, and heavier. It only gets worse when I stare next to the sink, where I'd propped a picture of my mother. She was an absolute spitting image of me— except she was perfect.

Wide brown eyes that fit her face flawlessly. Two even double eyelids, each slanting slightly upwards to create a unique, yet enchanting finish to her breathtaking eyes. And that wasn't even the end.

When I thought of perfection, the word reminded me of V.

I can still picture the first time I saw him, every feature defined the best way they could ever be defined. He made his uneven eyelids look so natural against his deep eyes, even using them to enhance his already beautiful face.

And his voice.

It had been smoother, richer, deeper, and better than anything else I had ever heard. If I only could, I would record his voice and listen to it for days on end. There was just something about his voice that you never got tired of, even if you heard it constantly for the rest of your life.

Perfect.

Flawless.

I'd always admired girls who could cry prettily, their dainty lips downturned into an equally dainty pout, their transparent tears following a set path on their softly blushed cheeks.

I was not one of those girls.

When the crying grows to the point where it's starting to get uncontrollable, I snatch a petal white towel from the hanger and press it against my eyes.

In the dark, lonely room, I feel isolated from the rest of the world, the world filled with perfect people with perfect lives, with perfect features and even perfect pets.

Their lives are filled with light.

Mine is filled with darkness.

This is the world I was born to live in, the path I was chosen to walk.

V's POV

"Good night," she tells me. Even her voice sends shivers down my back, and I hate it. I absolutely despise this emotion, and I'd been completely free of it before she came along.

Everything changed after she came along.

You changed, V.

Shut the hell up.

Purposely ignoring the voice in my head, I enter my apartment. It still smells like my father, and everything about him be damned. Regret pulses through me like fire as I knock a couple of empty alcohol bottles off the table, relishing the shatter of glass against wood.

The pleasurable feeling lasts exactly a second before it turns into rage and frustration again.

I'd always hated the smell of alcohol.

Afraid you'll turn out
like your father?

I said shut the hell up.

I don't listen to you.
We are one, after all.

No. We're not anything.

Suddenly, I feel an uncontrollable urge to break something, anything. Instinctively, I grab the first thing that I see besides me, which turns out to be hers.

Her eye patch.

The soft material is already ruined, and I remember the first time she'd come in here and I had mistaken her as an intruder. I remember holding a gun to her temple, and wanting to pull the trigger so badly that I'd been trembling from excitement.

What are you waiting for?
Burn the damn thing.

The voice in my head coaxes my feet to move towards the fireplace, and then my hands on the switch to start the blaze of the flames. As the dance of the fire draws me in, I raise my hand, ready to throw the patch directly into the flames to burn.

But then I stop. Something— that something— prevents me from throwing the thing into the crackling fireplace.

You've grown weak.

Anger rips through me as my vision blurs in and out of focus. I know I'm doing something— my arms and legs are moving, but I can't see what I'm doing.

By the time my vision gets back to normal and I am back in control, I find that I had burned everything in the room. The fire in the fireplace is burning hungrily as it melts glass, devouring the revolting stench of alcohol with the acrid smell of gas and ashes instead.

I find that I have burned everything, except for the eye patch.

Like I said, you are weak.