How Fame Made Her Fall (Permanent HOLD)

Wondering in Wonderland. Sorrow in the real world.

Hello again!! sally is back and more melancholic than ever!! :D please remember to...

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When it happened the first time she was lost in her own solitude.

Her mind wandered through sorrow and mournful memories. The pain pleased her. She desired it like no other; pain was so strong an emotion, and just to feel so powerful, even for just a second, was an amazing thing for her.

Usually so powerless in this huge and heart-breaking world. It was her addiction. Her addiction healed her soul.

In the corner, her legs pulled tightly to her chest and her mind wandering through imaginary worlds, she lifted her head. Her tear stained cheeks rose into a beautiful smile at the thought.

This was the beginning you see; the beginning of the dream.

But now, there was also an idea. Her smile widened at the thought of her brilliance. A genius thought it was. Now was her time to prove her self. It was redemption for every failed attempt at fame and every tear that fell down her drawn in cheeks.

Her shaking ceased its persistence to rumble her delicate frame. Her melancholy fled, courage taking its place. The slits on her wrists didn't hurt anymore; her dripping blood was now not sweet.

The courage was what made her stand and take the few small steps around her bed to her desk. Her desk that she had been staring at so intently for so long.

She sat, her heart still hurting, and picked up a pencil. It was an ordinary pencil. 2B. Flat and in need of sharpening. Only used before for writing and homework. Now it would be put to better use.

She held it tightly, staring at it for a while. Familiarising herself with it. At the time she had no idea why she held it like she did.

She held it because it didn't let go.

The idea, luckily, still lingered in her mind whilst she drew. For this she was unconsciously thankful. Though her pain she in visioned the picture again; imagining those who hated her. The skinny bitches who shoved their power in her face.

This was for them. She thanked them internally for their image. The hourglass figure, a drawn in waist, flat chest, bony arms and hollow cheeks. This was the hideous, grotesque side of beauty that no one dared portray in a drawing as she did.

They had no self pity to feed from. They blocked out the pessimistic pictures. The ones so frowned upon in society. It was such a horrible society we live in; one plastered with images of so called perfect bodies. Without fame or beauty you were nothing to them. The beautiful ones.

She was not one of these. So she drew how she wanted to look.

She had a vision, and as if she were tracing over a picture that was already on the paper, she drew it. Sometimes she would pick up her eraser, destroying another portion of it slowly. In the darkness she squinted. The tiny amount of light that had been spilling from under the curtains was disappearing.

She couldn't find any reason to turn the light on. Not now. Geting up would shatter the image in her mind. It would take her so much concentration to keep it. But it would be worth it in the end.

And it was.

After 8 hours of confinment in her room, she came out an artist.

The first drawing that she had ever done.

And it was so beautiful, yet so haunting.

It was the dark side of beauty.

From the back you saw her turned head as if she was looking beside her, but her eyes were sealed shut with heavy make-up. Her hair was long. A glorious brown that reflected every light that the sun shone on it. Silky hair. Cut un-evenly, some patches on her scalp bald as if she had been itching it slowly away; patch by patch. Her dress was a dark pink, almost red. Ruffles at the wrists and neck. They were blue and tattered. Her dress flowed where her hips should have been. In its place, her torso and hips were an hourglass. Filled inside was dropping sand. Slowly waiting for each grains chance to fall through the small opening in the middle. In the sand her most prized possessions and fears were held. Lipstick, a steampunk pocket watch, a piece of glass that once had been a mirror, a razor blade and many other things that she herself did not know herself.

This was what she strived to be.

This was her perfection.