You must still Give me your Worst.

(The Second Bit)

She fled to her room and took refuge under the covers. Mum and Dad were arguing though she didn't know why. It was horrible, she wanted it to stop. She even tried praying for it to stop. But it didn't stop, as she knew it would. She tried burying her head in a pillow to dub the noise. But it didn't work, as she knew it wouldn't. She tried to fall into the blissful depths of sleep. But she just couldn't, as she knew she couldn't. She rolled over and tried to cry, for Nanny always said it was best to let it out when you are sad. But the more she tried, the more she stiffened to hold it back. She ended sputtering instead, as she knew she would. Finally she gave up and just lay splayed out and weary, letting the shrieks and shouts wash over her slow and painful.

The argument ended with a slam of the main door and a wail, moan, then sob from Mum. A terrible silence followed soon after. She saw Dad in her mind, towering over Mum; his face contorted in anger and disgust, her mascara running down either cheek in ominous black lines. This image stayed etched in her mind, as she knew it inevitably would.

How she hurt.

Once againagain, you Must still Give me your Worst. ._.

Give me your Worst.

This. This is the first ever THING I've written. And the funny thing is I don't even have a title. I'm still working on that. And like I said, give me your Worst. I need It. ._.

(The First Bit)

The air was crisp...but not the way she liked it. She preferred the kind that could persuade the air to come to life, to waltz among the flowers while soaking in the sunlight; the kind that tickles you awake when taken in, before giving the most curiously delightful sense of wholeness that puts a smile of your face and a spring in your step.

There was a distinct- a near suffocating hostile- chilliness here, though. She shivered slightly, unaccustomed to the creepy silence that stalked this timeless zone. It was very queer, as if she were being watched from all sides. She wriggled her toes out of habit, only to meet with a flawless marble floor, cold and hard. How she missed the warm fuzzy carpets from back home.

Not that I don't like our house, oh no, it's absolutely lovely!

And lovely it was, for the house was furnished with wooden artifacts laden with beautiful intricate carvings, and then peppered with ornaments of mirror, crystal and glass- a pretty combination, you see. The windows were huge; the door knobs were brass; and all of the toilets of nice frosted glass.

Mummy and Daddy even bought a dear little rocking chair for me to sit in!

Oh, but how strange! She didn't feel like she was at home at all! Nothing seemed quite right. And at the same time she loathed herself for harboring such selfish thoughts. She wanted so much to be her parents' perfect little girl, to be content- not spoilt at all, so they would love her more and spend more time with her.

I wish Mummy were her...I miss the smell of spring that always follows her about like my shadow does to me...Nanny smells very much like the cod liver oil she's always getting me to take...ugh, and she's as fun as that sounds...she can't help me make rainbows dance in my room like Daddy can with his prisms...

She still couldn't help but wonder why there weren't any family photos properly framed and decorated about the house that she would loved stare at for hours at a time; when was the last time they merrily went out as a tight-knit happy family of three; and how it would be till “some day” or “another time” and perhaps “soon”.

Darn. There I go again. Pull yourself together, silly! Your family's just fine, and you got everything you could ever want! You shouldn't be so horribly fussy...you can't...y-you mustn't...or...or else Father Christmas won't come this year! Th-that's right...h-he doesn't visit b-bad kids, remember...and then you won't g-get your wish....


Once again, GIVE ME YOUR WORST. ._.