FLOWER ARE BETTER WHEN THEY'RE FAKE (COMPLETED)

Chapter 2

I wake up around dinner time. My eyes fly around the room as I try to gather my jumbled-up thoughts. As I try to wake up like a normal person, the sweet citrus-y lemon smell wafts into my room. Instantaneously my stomach growls. 

I unconsciously got up and was about to walk out of the room when I then realized that I did not have a shirt on. I looked around before I saw it on the floor in front of the nightstand. I went over to pick it up. As I bent over, I felt a piece of skin literally rip apart. Next thing I knew I felt something warm just run down the side of my stomach. My hand went to wipe it up and I saw a thick red substance. 

Blood. Just great. Just what I needed. Just a perfect way to continue my day.

I go to the bathroom and try to wash it up. The soap and wipes are burning me as I try to patch it up. They are always dried and cracked, and no amount of moisturizer will ever fix them. I regret not putting any when I was younger cause now, they are worse than ever. And the worst pain these things give me is when a loose thread from a sweater or shirt gets stuck in there and it pulls on the skins. I cry sometimes when it happens. 

As I manage to clean and fix it something comes to mind.

...

Two girls, one about the age of 20 and the other about the age of 5, are sitting in the living room of a small apartment. Although the apartment is small it is clean and maintained.

The 20-year-old girl is spread out on the couch, smoking a cigarette while the child is sitting at a child's metal play table. While the older one looks relaxed, the child looks absolutely terrified, not moving a muscle. Something is clutched tightly in her fist and her lips are sealed, as though a secret was ready to burst.

"What is wrong with you?" as the older one, a puff of smoke coming out with each word.

"Nothing," said the child quickly. At this the child looked like a ghost as all the color from her face fled. She began to tremble madly. The older one looked suspicious and decided to further investigate. She got up from the couch and started to walk towards the child, clutching the cigarette tighter. The child was thinking about running but she knew that would make the situation ten times worse. She decided to let the Devil who tries to wear Prada come to her.

"What is in your hand?" asks the older one standing above the child, more aggressively. The child does not give the satisfaction of answering, so instead she tries to put on a brave face, but semi fails. The older is tired of these childish antics; like a vulture the older one goes for the child's clenched hand and tries to pry it open. Even with the odds stacked against her the child was able to fend off the older one for a while.

After about 5 minutes of rough housing the older one was able to open the child's hand and reveal... a broken pencil. Snapped right in half, laying in the palm of the child's hand, sweat glistening it.

This angered the older one beyond imagination. Immediately she raised the severely scratched hand that was not holding the cigarette and hit the child very hard. The child fell down hard with the loudest THUD! known to mankind. The child felt her head crack open again and a pool of blood dampen her hair.

The older one knelt next to the fallen child and looked at her with the utmost dislike. She picked up the child and cradled her in her arms, as though she was though she was trying to put the child to sleep; pulling the child closer to her chest only made the child more delusional and made her headache even worse as she tried to pull away from the older one. As older one was twirling her cigarette gingerly, she was speaking to the child rudely, making sure that spit hit her with each word.