#;cussing

Violets are blue

You’re my history teacher

IM PISSING MYSELF.

Leave "Red String Of Fate" In My Askbox: 6Our muses are destined to be each other's eternal rebounds.

[ Six Degrees of Separation ~ The Script Song-Fic | Pairing: Kitten/Jinx ]

There are six degrees of separation.

First, you think that the worst is a broken heart.  It doesn’t really matter how.  Perhaps he didn’t care enough.  Perhaps he betrayed you to fulfill his mission.  In the end, you’re left with a hollow ache in your chest, like you have been ripped apart.  Distraught, angry, and hoping that this is all a bad dream, you pick up the phone with your slender, perfectly manicured hand and dial the number.  An equally pretty hand picks it up on the other hand, and within minutes, you’re in the other girl’s arms.  

Normally, you wouldn’t be caught dead with a gothically dressed witch or a barbie-doll joke of a villain, but it’s this part that’s killing you.  The second part in which you’re torn between rage and hurt, with mascara running down your cheeks.  It’s okay, you don’t have to hide it, not in front of her.  She picks up a wipe and carefully cleans you up, and when you’re done crying and screaming, she fixes your makeup.  

     Maybe if you looked good on the outside, no one will see how you’re breaking apart on the inside.  No one really ever bothered to look beyond the designer clothes or the pretty face anyway.  There’s only one person that knows there’s just another girl seeking for approval beneath the glitter and jewels, and she’s staring at you with all too-knowing eyes.

And third, when your world splits down the middle, you desperately try to find the other half to fill it up.  But there’s no one, and for a moment, you think you’re alone.  But then she pulls out a to-die-for dress, and helps you into it.  Here’s the satin, here are the jewels.  A pair of fancy heels, and you look like a princess again.

A slender arm wraps around you and you’re in the spotlight, in the sun, with crowds shooting you looks of admiration and jealousy.  Millions of faces, and you only care about one.  Somewhere in the sea of people he must be, right?  A squeeze on your arm tries to be reassuring, but its not.  He must be out there, you just missed it.

     He must be.

So fourth, you think you’re okay.  People are falling heads over heels for you.  You’ve fixed yourself, and the gorgeous girl next to you has helped you.  Everything is going to be alright.  Who needs boys anyway?  They’re mean, arrogant, and—

—standing next to another girl.  She has pretty black hair, a yellow shirt, a doll-like expression.  Maybe it’s this fifth part that hurts the worst.  Who is she?  Was she just a rebound?  Had he been cheating on you this entire time?

     { Don’t cry, you’ll ruin your makeup. Don’t make a scene, it’ll show how much you care. }

And then your partner is excusing the two of you, something about another party, and then you’re away from the crowd of cold, uncaring people.  You’re in a bathroom, and the tiles are cold against the backless dress as you slump heavily, staining that perfect skin with black once more.