Narrative Essays: Wonderland

The cheap mirror does wonders to my mind, helping me criticize every inch of my skin. Hating every flaw. Even as I cover the acne scars and random freckles, I still make myself want to throw up the breakfast that I never ate. I was disgusting, to the bone.

I plaster my ivory skin with base. Powder. Bright red lipstick. Mascara. Eyeliner. All in a weak attempt to make myself look pretty. I couldn't even 'make up' my appearance with the very cosmetics that were supposed to make me a Barbie.

I'd give anything to be a Barbie. So pretty. So lovable.

"Hurry up in there. I've got to take a piss." Michael muses, head peaking in from behind the paneled door.

"Well, isn't that lovely."

"You know you want to see what's in my pants."

I laugh.

"You wish!"

"Whatever. Are you almost done applying the makeup you don't need?"

"Yep."

I turn to him, giving a small smile.

"Does it look okay?"

"Yeah, it looks fine. I just wish you wouldn't wear that shit."

I roll my eyes and step out of the bathroom, making my way to the window. It seemed to show the New York snow in a more beautiful way then it already looked. Glistening. Fluttering. It was really quite a sight, and with how the snowflakes settled on the very tips of skyscrapers, it almost looked like a winter wonderland. A kingdom of snow, that me and Michael ruled together.

I feel his chin rest on my shoulder, but he doesn't say a word. Reaching backwards, I feel for his hands, and bring them to wrap around me. He nuzzles into my neck, and I suddenly get this feeling; this wonderful, warm and fuzzy feeling that makes me feel at home.

His lips press to my cheek.

"So, my mom wants to meet you, Mike. She wants to cook dinner for you tonight."

"Oh really? How does she know who I am?"

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... middle of paper ...

...shattered souls of the dead, you can always help. Always. You have to try to get anywhere in life."

"I just don't see the point in it anymore."

I raise a brow.

"You try to sing, didn't you?"

He nods.

"And look where you are now. You've toured with One Direction. You written songs with All Time Low; all because you tried."

Michael doesn't respond, and I do believe that I've won, for once. He looks down at his hands again, then back at me.

"So, I finally get to see you eat?"

I tense, focusing on the people crossing the street, and the more rude drivers honking at them.

"Shut up." I hiss at him.

"Start eating and I'll leave you alone."

"No you won't."

"You don't trust me?" He simpers.

I give another sickly sweet smirk.

"Stop scaring the living shit out of me and I'll trust you again."

Neither of us speak another word to each other the whole ride there.