A sheer veil dropped over her face as she watched herself tip toe down the isle. Her one true love standing at the end, his hands grasped tightly in the other. The two shared subtle smiles. Suddenly, it all goes to black. There was no isle. There was no fairytale dress like her mother spoke of before her. It was only her. Lying naked on the cold cement floor with a bottle attached to her fingers and the stale smell of cigarette smoke lingering in the air. Some people’s fairytales aren’t like the rest. Just dark, beautiful and blown up into dust. ——————————————————
MERCY JAMES ST. CLAIRE. TWENTY-THREE. QUIET BUT HAS LOUD THOUGHTS. SIMPLE WOMAN WITH SATIRE DESIRES. INCLINED TO THE PRETTIER THINGS IN LIFE. NEW YORK NATIVE. ENJOYS A NICE GLASS OF RED. PRETENTIOUSLY POETIC. STUBBORN. HOPELESS ROMANTIC. A BIG FLIRT. BELIEVES IN FATE. NOT EASY TO OPEN UP. EASILY HURT. HAS A DARK, BUT BEAUTIFUL MIND. LEAVE A DESIRE OF YOURS FOR A TBH.