lit week four - the fruit of my commonplace book.
Ummm so this is the beginning of a short story that I started in my commonplace book. The idea for it was sparked by a friend of mine telling me about his ex-girlfriend’s past, and how it was completely disassociated with her present. That being said, any resemblance of my character to any real person is entirely coincidental… haha.
It began in my commonplace book with these lines:
She used to be a ballerina.
(Or so I’ve been told…)
You wouldn’t know it to look at her.
So I’m expanding from there. I doubt I’ll get the whole story in now, I’m too bitsy for that. But here goes!
She used to be a ballerina.
(Or so I’ve been told…)
You wouldn’t know it to look at her, years of overeating and substance abuse had taken their toll on Amy. Her once (presumably) spritely figure had filled out in all the wrong places, she had an almost lumpy look about her. Her thighs, her arms, her belly - all jiggled with each labored step. She now lacked almost all poise and grace in both the way she moved and the way she carried herself.
With her sunken hollow eyes circled by dark rings, she had no sparkle, nothing to invite you in. Her nose, although it could hardly have altered in the few years since her life became akin to a den of iniquity, sat perched over her downturned and snarling mouth, large and hooked like the beak of a vulture. How becoming of a girl who took pleasure in tearing to pieces those around her who had already fallen. The angry and ultimately bitter shape of her twisted lips seemed to be present almost in protest to the foul tirade of words issued between them in each sentence. Eloquence and elegance were completely absent, and in their place stood an abundance of crude and crass statements and insults.
This face, so devoid of all happiness and welcoming warmth, was framed by her limp, lank, over-dyed, over-treated hair. It sat just below her square jaw, curving this way and that, almost as if it had given up any hope of falling in a neat manner around the mess it grew from. She had most recently attempted to colour it red, but the vivid tone merely worked against her to highlight every little aspect in which her face was lacking. Instead of drawing attention to itself, her hair had become a beacon for those who may otherwise have dismissed her as average looking, to be drawn in to study each and every imperfection.
Piercings and tattoos covered a large proportion of her pasty and sallow flesh. If this had been done in some attempt to appear sexy like a rebellious 1950s pin-up girl, or mysterious and alluring like a rockstar, she had failed miserably. She simply looked as though a bored (and slightly deranged) child had taken to her with a needle and a ballpoint pen, trying to stab away each flaw and translate their worst nightmares into images.
Amy was the kind of girl who old ladies crossed the street to avoid. Mothers pulled their children closer to protect them from this monster, this harlot in her short skirts, torn fishnet stockings and exposed underwear. Men glanced quickly at the striking fire-engine-red hair, but recoiled at her monstrously painted face, the face of a disturbed and demented doll, or of an aging drag queen.
And they were right to.
My mother has always told me to not judge a book by its cover. I was one not to be deceived by appearances. I had learnt in my brief time in this world that the most horrendous of faces could mask the most beautiful, elegant and poised people. So I had once made the mistake of giving Amy a chance. I let her into my life and tried to get to know her.
Never have I met someone more selfish and hell-bent on getting her way in every aspect of her life. She trod on everyone around her, clawed at you, dragging you down to her level. Paranoid delusions created in her sick little head somehow became part of everyone’s lives. If Amy had it in her head that you had wronged her, or even attempted to wrong her, she would set out on a personal vendetta. She would poison everything and everyone around you, until the world was bleak and chaotic. Destruction was her only end, she would stop at nothing to get it, and everyone who knew her grew to learn that.
She used to be a ballerina.
(Or so I’ve been told…)
You wouldn’t know it to look at her. Now, she was something else. Something bitter, something twisted, something untamable and hell-bent on devastation.
Well, I don’t think it’s finished, but it’s fleshing out nicely. I wonder what adventures psychotic old Amy will get upto! She really is a low and disgusting character, isn’t she? How cheerful for a Monday morning.
Peace out kiddies!
xoxo