Aurora

To escape her constant solitude, Aurora seeks attention and affections from boys who smirk the right way, despite being degraded for it. Amidst it all, she sort of, accidentally, falls in love...Ok so I completely rushed this IM SORRY. I wrote it for the John Green competition and literally posted it at one minute to midnight, punctual as ever. But here it is. I hope you can still make some sense out of it. Credit for the chapter titles go to Marina & the Diamonds, whose Electra Heart character inspired me a lot :)

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1. I. You had a sad urge to be wanted by fools

Aurora had been Aurora once, cradled in her mother’s swan-neck arms, with wisps of hair like raven feathers curling around her head. There, swaddled in a nest of hospital blankets and christened with kisses, her mother had sing-songed “Aurora”, before falling swiftly asleep.

Perhaps she’d have been Aurora all her life, if her mother had woken up again.

Growing up, she’d been Princess, people eager to acclaim wit by linking Aurora the Disney princess who lives in a fairy-tale castle with Aurora the young heiress living in her Daddy’s grandest of hotels. It was probably to be expected, and after all, who didn’t want to be a princess? She lived in Penthouse splendour; silken sheets to fit a king-sized bed and crystals dripping like raindrops from the chandeliers.  On her balcony she perched like a bird on the tallest branch, watching life go by, the bustling swarms of people, the exhaust fumes and winking windows. She watched the River Thames sway lazily in the breeze, beneath blue and violet clouds that swept behind Parliament’s towers and London’s eye, into the vast horizon, the curtain pulled over the cosmos.

But she was often content in the lobby, sitting like a centrepiece in-between the guests, spotting her reflection in their starlit eyes. It was for these devoted and faithful subjects she truly played the role, with her saccharine smile and compassion. For listening to their woes, Parisian ladies fed her macaroons and let her wear their hats, and for impersonating their accents, American businessmen would let her dance on their toes at their galas. Abel, the manager, would always say that they came back for her; she was the star of the show. She’d deny it, but she knew it was the truth. Everyone loved her, from the tourists to the maids.

So really, it didn’t matter that her father didn’t. It really didn’t matter.

But she found that, with age, a void in her grew that macaroons and dancing could no longer wholly fill. It was around about this time “Princess” slipped away from her, like sand through her fingers.

She became “babe” in the ballroom, dancing with her own high heels, hands around a boy’s neck. She was “hon” at the pool, singing ancient melodies for their eyes. And before long she was nothing at all, just grunts and sighs of “yes, oh god, fuck”, to the lifeguard, to the waiter, to the bellboy, to the guys that smirked the right way.

She was a string of curses in the water, hot like wildfire. She was a moan on one of the rooftop deck chairs, beast withdrawn in the moonlight. She was a heavy breath between floors in the lift, lost beneath the scratchy orchestra played through the speakers. Still, she thinks that was better than what came next.

“Sleeping Beauty.” It took a bunch of puns and headlines for it to stick, but it did, soon enough, it did. She didn’t intend for it to turn out like this, for tabloids and bloggers to define her by her “scandals”. She didn’t intend to be a trophy cup, marred with the grubby fingerprints of slimy boys. But what the world says goes, and she’s decided not to give a shit.

Her dresses get tighter, her hair gets blonder, her lips get redder and if there was anyone who would have said no, they wouldn’t do now.

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