Her sparkling yet soulless, green eyes stare straight back into mine. From the non-existent window comes a gust of airless wind flipping her dead but growing, blond hair across her living but lifeless, pale face. A dry tear rolls down her cold, rosy cheek. She's not real. But then she's not really a she, but an it. It's almost exactly like a girl I knew very well. Except the girl I knew is real. It's just a copy.
Technically I still do know the girl, but not like I used to. I know her, but don't understand her. I even used to like her. In fact, I liked her a lot. Probably more than I should have. Now, I look upon the not-real-but-exact copy of her with utter loathing and disgust because of what the girl has done to herself. Now, I hate the girl more than anyone else in the world. But I can't run away from her.
You see, the girl used to be a pretty girl, but not anymore. I suppose she is still pretty, in a way. Her golden locks still dance Swanlake everytime the wind blows. Her eyes are still exquisite emeralds that sparkle in the sunshine. Her lips are still the colour of red-velvet cupcakes, so sweet. And her slim figure can still dance and sway with utter perfection. But she's not pretty on the inside. That's the part no one else considers. That's the part I hate.
The girl wasn't always ugly inside. She used to be quite beautiful actually. But she changed herself, into someone she isn't.
YOU ARE READING
Mystic
Short StoryThis mysterious book is the cliff-hanging tale of a girl who changes herself into someone she isn't. But who is the storyteller? And what is the copy?
