irayumi
Wood.
Disgusted, she stared at it.
What a weird scent, she mused, coming from the pile covered by a black cloth in the wooden wagon driven by the aged, cloaked man.
(She assumed it was a man, of course, because he lacked the assets to be a woman)
Quickly, her mother told her to close the door.
"Keep death out, Charlotte dear."
Charlotte closed the door quickly. The last thing she wanted was the plague killing the rest of her family, mama and Louis were all she had left.
She knelt and prayed a silent prayer, hoping that God would protect her and what was left of her family from the plague that would be later known as the Black Death.
Stiff, starched and absolutely uncomfortable.
You fidget in your seat, fingering the white abomination disgustedly.
"Stupid school uniforms," you mutter to yourself.
Lily, your best friend, gives you an amused sideways glance.
You silently wonder if it would be in your interest to smack her.
(It isn't your fault your mother has this OCD about crisp, wrinkle-free clothes.)
Life.
Yours is chartered, past, present and future.
Beehive.
Too much to do, too little time.
Work.
Here there is no escape, only toil.
System.
Nothing changes, everything stays the same, going in a never ending cylce.
Paradox.
"Deviant," they whisper. Not normal.
Pressure Cooker.
That's how you feel, pushed pushed pushed to do more more more.
Breathe.
You swear you are being choked, in every possible meaning, literal and figurative.
Hierarchy.
There's only one queen, sweetheart. And. It. Isn't. You.
Limbo.
And it goes on and on and on and on and on.
Pain.
Your muscles ache, your vision blurs and you are too tired to think, to question.
Live.
You won't.
Die.
You can't.
Change.
Be it.
White and black keys, ivory of course, adorned the musical instrument that Hugo had his eyes on.
He stared at it longingly, mother would surely allow him the privilege, father though, he was not sure.
Father was not a fan of muggle devices, despite the fact that he himself is married to a muggleborn, solely to the fact that his own father was a great fan of them and spent much of his time and energy on muggle automatons.
He exhaled.
Soon, he told himself, soon he would show his father the beauty of music, and the thought consoled him.
You sip from your glass and slowly watch the two of them together.
He has her arm wrapped around her shoulders and he raises a toast.
"To us."
You raise your glass, but trying to remain expressionless, trying not to feel what strongly sounds like resentment, as he brings the glass to the girl's lips, smiling lovingly at her.
She smiles and drinks the champagne, along with him.
The next moment, the two of them collapse on the floor, causing the whole room to erupt in a panic.
You choose this moment to smile and sip the contents of your glass.
You drink tea, of course.
Not that disgusting stuff, champagne.
"To me."
Really, you were never the princess.
Maybe it's a little painful.
But princesses in storybooks and fairytales always have blonde hair and blue eyes.
(Like Victoire)
Never red hair and green eyes.
So, you hate your hair and eyes that everyone else seems to adore.
Because, you are no princess.
(And princes only look out for blonde-haired blue-eyed girls)
She's sneaky, that Lily Luna Potter.
She knows her way around your heart.
(She wants it all to herself)
Yes boy.
(Yours)
She's broken down those walls of yours and sees through those storm grey eyes.
And before you know it,
You find yourself wanting her too.
She waits and waits for him to come back to her.
She makes cookies and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, jars of Kool Aid.
She waits,
day after day after day.
Because she truly feels, that Luke Castellan will come home.
She deserves everything.
So she takes and takes and takes.
And baby, she leaves you burning.
With her redredred hair and painted smile.
(She's fake)
But you let her take you anyway.
Because, she deserves everything.