I Want, Gets.

Tia has always been different, but she's never quite known why. She has never been without what she wanted; she's the center of attention at school, at home... everywhere.

And something's not right...

-BM at the and of a chapter name means 'By Mirlotta', BH at the end of one means 'By Hellohihi', and BB means 'By Both'.


2. Before you read on (BM)

I flicked a strand of my once straw-like - yet now flowing and glossy mane over my shoulder. I picked awkwardly at my nails. They were painted fuchsia, my lucky colour - not my favourite, that changes day to day, usually based on my mood. So in theory, today it should be grey, grey like the dull, dull day it was. Or a purple. Purple to match the shadows under my eyes from lack of sleep.

But neither were my colour that day.

It's yellow, a golden luxurious yellow that  weaves its way around my head, pulling my frown upwards and shimmering it's happiness into my eyes. Yellow is the colour I want my soul to dance to, that I want my heart to brim with.

But it doesn't.

Today my soul is too preoccupied to dance and my heart too sorrowful to brim with anything else. My mood is black, black as the pit of despair I'm shovelling for myself, the one I don't believe I'll ever get out of, like I'm digging my own grave, that I am to be trapped inside for all eternity. In a way, I wish I was.  Black, black, black. It rolls off my tongue quite happily; doesn't get stuck there like yellow. Mellow yellow.

Yes, black is my colour today and has been for what seems like forever, like the way memories have stuck to everything about me. The ground I tread on, the landscapes which catch my eye - nothing escapes the wrath of these memories. I didn't know the harm my decision would bring, didn't know the hopeless desire, tragedy.

Looking up at the flickering, dim light above me, I saw my reflection in the glass.  The sharp, well-defined outline of my face, the thin, rosy lips, the high-set eyebrows, and the deep blue eyes.  The only thing about myself I never changed.  Wide, pretty even.  One thing I actually liked about myself.

I sat in the cool detention room, for whatever I'd done this time; it happens so often I just forget.  I was on floor 3 of Tomlinson High, and I only thought about being outside.  Suddenly, the room seemed to erase itself around me, until I was left in the meadow near my house.  That's all it was now, a house.  I just wanted to be normal, a regular person.  To live in a regular house, do regular things.  I didn't even realize I'd wanted to be outside.  That's what happens sometimes.  Being me isn't always useful.  Sometimes whatever I do just flops.  Like me, flopping onto the tall grass of my secret place.  My secret place.  Mine.  One of the few things I had that wasn't created by my mind.  Somewhere true, and pure.  Somewhere I could be alone,  and lose myself among the long strands of grass.

Before you read on, I should warn you. Being popular is not always everything, being the centre of attention, the lucky one... it's not what it seems. Nobody can ever escape what I did, what I've done. Not anybody. Not ever...

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