a thousand sociopathic tendencies book 1: the last girl on earth

chapter 1: meet the queen of disaster

"who are you? what do you live for? are you jealous of death? or do you crave all the magnificent things life has to offer? are you in touch with all of your darkest desires? or do you brush everything under the surface?"

let's imagine. it's a tuesday afternoon. it's five weeks post the last month of ninth grade. you're beautiful, so is the weather. you're incredibly popular. the world is at your beck and call, your sweet delicate feet never even touch the ground. helen of troy would bow her head in your presence. they all look at you like you're some kind of weird hybrid between God and every star that's ever existed, except you shine just a bit brighter. you're bold. fear is an unfamiliar feeling. you've never heard the word no. you possess incredible charisma and grace. guess what? that's not you. it's her. you know the girl. the one everyone would die to be. men love her, girls secretly hate her. whenever she's around, she's practically the last girl on earth. your crush forgets your name, your mother begins to feel ashamed of you. that's her. angelica dolorilie.

angelica. she's a vision. a memory that never relinquishes its burning picture in your mind. she's this song of quiet melancholy, hushed over the violins of rebellion. a living breathing personification of beauty. a rare compliance between grace and wrath, the mingling between the two that will simmer and flicker like the very moment day switches to night and the moon awakes from its slumber. a laugh as broad and warm as an endless summer.
she conveys this feeling of nostalgia of two lovers' first kiss, how lips do what hands do when hands fold in prayer, mimicking the innocence of a forgiven sin. most importantly, she's a reminder of that something you know you shouldn't do, a ringing of something you never wanted to do.
a stinging wound that never seems to heal, with stitches that won't stay stitched. she's a color you don't know exists, that you can't quite create a title for but you can understand it's beauty none the same. her heart is a flame so hot it turns blue, and it expands with the greed of a rotten child and burns like the fresh fluorescence of a nebula in space.
a rose that smells so sweet and is stained with beauty like a curse. you touch it only to prick your finger and allow it to drip three times with blood. what a fool you are to fall for it's pretty tricks.
she's a crumbling civilization, a dido amongst her carthage. she's the queen. the queen of disaster.