BEING EDITED
~†~
Local neighborhood orphan, Brooklyn Persson, has only ever wanted one thing:
Freedom.
Not family, not food, just pure unrestricted independence -although she can't deny that money would be a nice addition too.
However, just three m...
Rất tiếc! Hình ảnh này không tuân theo hướng dẫn nội dung. Để tiếp tục đăng tải, vui lòng xóa hoặc tải lên một hình ảnh khác.
BROOKLYN
"Would you like to say a few words?" Headmistress Anette asked in Swedish.
Earlier on at the palace, Jan-Olaf and Her Majesty had informed me that the probability of this very situation happening was at a fucking high.
That's why when the choir went to take their seats and two students stood up to shift the pulpit a little to the side, I stood up without a fear, an applause echoing after me. I wasn't afraid. Come to think of it, when was I ever afraid? After all, it was a just a mere speech.
Question remained: Were they fucking ready for it?
Glancing from the clueless hundred or more seated before me to the small sheet of paper that held the speech I was to give, the speech Jan-Olaf had prepared for me but with a few minor edits of mine to the photographers busy clicking away with their cameras, I cleared my throat.
Oh, they so weren't ready for this.
"Good day Headmistress," I started, "Staff of this...great institution and my fellow or rather, soon-to be fellow ambassadors of Hillerska, it is with a great pride and honor that I, your princess..."
I gave a dramatic pause.
"You know what?"
I looked over the rest of the goddamned incomprehensible words I'd doodled over, bold blue ink highlighting only three words —my words.
"Fuck. This. Shit," I said, pretending I hadn't already had all this planned out. It was followed by the sound of ripping paper, shocked gasps and flashing cameras —as I'd fucking expected.
Like I said, nobody was fucking ready for this.
I scrunched the pieces up, tossing the small ball behind me without a single glance before freeing my hair from its bun prison, shaking my head and running my fingers through until it fell in loose curls around my face.
"Freedom," I sighed under my breath, utterly relieved. The stylist —nothing but evil I believed her to be— had pulled at the ends/roots of my precious hair, creating not only a sick tension in my scalp but a fucking headache.
I met Jan-Olaf's gaze. His mouth hung slightly open, eyes filled with surprise and confusion. At first, he tried to get the camera guys to stop but my actions seemed to have rattled him deeply. In short, he was fucking speechless.
"Don't fucking look at me like that, man," I defended after a pop of my gum, "I tried."
I directed my gaze back to five thousand multitudes, squinting my eyes because once again, these goddamned photographers just didn't know when to fucking stop.
