𝖗𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖔𝖓

skeleton.

Since she was a little girl she’s had a fascination with pretending. Pretending to smile, pretending to care. Pretending to be the perfect little girl that she could be – why? It’s not like her parents pressured her… They would have ever-so-passively supported whatever Sharon decided to do with her time. It’s not like she cared much about what people thought of her, either; it’s exactly what so many men had deigned to find ‘so refreshing’ about her when they were pretending to spill their souls, desperate to get under her spankies. If only they knew that would just as soon shove her thumbs into their eye sockets if she had to.  Maybe it’d be impossible to pinpoint when the obsession started, but as long as Cher can remember, she was out with something to prove. Maybe if she could be the perfect little girl, people might believe there was nothing wrong with her; maybe if she could prove that she blended seamlessly into the world around her, she would believe it too. It’s what led her to ballet – to cheerleading, and homecoming court. It’s what kept her mingling in and out of the popular crowd, throwing parties at her families’ motel – even when she would’ve rather set them all on fire than entertain.  But there’s this dark side that’s always haunted Sharon, since she was a little kid. It’s what flagged her doctors, young enough that she was popping antidepressants just in time for middle school. Ritalin came around a little later, when she started finding it harder and harder to focus. None of it ever really quieted the darkness – not quite the way they wanted, at least. Sharon still stopped in the street a little too long. She still held her hand over the flame on the stove long enough to burn; still held her head under the bathwater until her lungs burned, and her vision went black.  And it was curious, when she did – whenever she stepped a little too close between the edge of life and death; existence and hurt. It was like she could hear whispering, or maybe something calling out to her. It was like she could make out the voice of something that had been beckoning her since she was just a child, pretending to be the perfect little girl – pretending she felt human at all.  Maybe that was why it didn’t feel like some big affair when her brother found her in the motel pool, water stained red with the blood pouring from her wrists. Maybe that was why she didn’t understand why her parents sent her away for months on end. Sharon had only been looking for answers. She’d be lying if she said she saw nothing, those minutes before the doctors had gotten enough blood flowing through her veins again to get her heart beating normally again. Answers? Not by a long shot. But maybe it was finally a confirmation for Miss Rose of Sharon Chappel: that feeling less than human sometimes might be a little less crazy than she thought.  It’s been two weeks now since Cher got home from the hospital. She hasn’t left her house much, and she’s been dealing with the spin of the rumor mill, even from the comfort of her home. Most of Misty Mountain knows the chink in her armor now – the perfect little facade has come crumbling down. Cher is just wondering if she should try to fix it, or just say fuck it all.  Does it matter, if all she really wants to do is hear the whisper again?

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