The lamuring lady, the sacrifical lamb and the woman who was in the newspapers, in large letters claiming to tell her story through art.
You are one of the members of the yellowjackets team, the number twenty three.
However, most people knew you lik...
CHAPTER SYNOPSIS — The other girls went to a journey that Lottie didn't want to go (the other girls went to a journey you couldn't follow).
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2021
When you looked in the mirror, you brought your notebook with yourself, with a red and white pattern fabric cover, and in it you made lists, listing every little thing that was different from the day before. You liked to keep yourself sane, to keep track of where you had changed and how you perceived that change. Most days, things stayed the same, but there were moments, like this one, when you felt that something had changed, but you had no idea what it was.
Something in me wants more. I can't rest. Sylvia Plath, Your first forbidden reading.
You thought about the notes in your notebook, how your hair grew a finger after you started not straightening it, and how when your mother found out, you would cut it off.
You thought about the white dress you were wearing, about how you couldn't even look at your own body without your nightgown on.
You thought about Stephen and how you would hate the life you were leading, you thought about being angry, angry at literature, at thoughts and at Charlotte, because you knew, you knew, that the only reason you wanted so much more was because you knew there was more than what you had.
You wondered if it was worth living a life of ignorance or a life full of incomplete desires.
You thought about Lottie's eyes and came to the conclusion that nothing would be more valuable than having her attention on you.
And then you felt a tear run down your cheek, the drop taking you out of your train of thought and back onto the tracks of the real world.
It wasn't a tear of sadness, but a tear of polish. You had been staring at yourself in the mirror all this time, without blinking.
As for me, I had a lot to say. But I remained silent. Albert Camus, 1932, studied it in the first period, between free classes and before cheerleading practice, where you went just to steal the other girl's glances. Nothing fulfilling.
You stared at the little desk on your left, a decorated letter on the top of it.
All of your promises were handwritten and sealed with wax in a beautiful colored envelope full of stickers. You liked concrete things —including words.
You wiped your eyes and left the room, straightening your clothes and walking to the kitchen to start preparing breakfast.
