Everything looked like a ridiculously adorable dream in the past, back before they opened their eyes.
In that dream-like world, nothing truly existed as itself. But it was simple to ignore the truth if one tries hard enough to forget reality or pretend everything was as desired.
So, hiding behind a translucent rouge veil, Ami truly believed the world was pink.
The world was different back then: nothing but coral shades of blush and soft, dreamy whispers. They’d wipe the shiny, dream-colored tint of peach lip gloss spilling down their chin with a lacy orchid-pink handkerchief; then they’d brush subtly strawberry-colored blush over their cheeks with a smile brighter than half-translucent pink diamonds.
Then they’d stare at those diamonds, thankful that the soft color and refined shape warped their reflection.
After all, the cutest color was always pink. It tasted like spun sugar and a smile following a happy dream. It hid in the undertones of life, lingering beautifully beneath deceptively hopeless surfaces. There, it’d grow and consume all the blue in the world until everything became just as elusive as its soft hue.
Back then, they could smile without restraint. They could fall easily into the embrace of a world that had accepted them and their “weird” identity.
Back then, they could stare at their reflection, half-feeling like it could replicate all their thoughts.
No matter how much Ami blinks at the person in the mirror, the stranger moves with them.
Copycat, Ami mouths. That person mouths it back, pretending like they’re the real one between the two. That pale reflection is nothing more than a messy fit of emotions, wrapped up in expectations and spit out like a seed that would never have the chance to grow.
Ami knows better than to think that phony is them.
The real Ami isn’t a mess of love and hate, doomed to never quite fit in with their peers. They’re just a person who likes cute things. They’re just another unconfident person who can’t maintain eye contact with their reflection.
Eventually, they step away from the mirror.
The stranger steps away, too.
Ami knows it’s a necessary distance; it’s the only way to preserve their fragile hopes. The only way that they know how to pretend that their reflection is someone else entirely.
Only by stepping back into the sunlight will they be a step closer to becoming themself. But they duck into the shadows, avoiding the spots where the house lights can reach their silhouette.
Ami thinks it’s easier to look at themself in the dark. But one day, they might become something like a shadow, too.
Choosing to stay inside won’t work forever, so they give another half a month for something to change within them. With their cocoon half-formed, they could remain within the confines for at least a bit longer, and then, they’d be ready to face the world again.
It was like Ami had worn rose-tinted glasses their entire life.
If the saccharine smile caught in their thousands of dreams was ever within reach of reality, then maybe, by reaching a delicate hand through the mirror and offering kindness and redemption, there was a way to replicate that sugar-sweet smile and display it to those who could value its weight.
Ha. As if I could ever believe in romantic crap like that, Ami thinks, cutting off that stupid, dreamy train of thought.
When covered in the faint light of early morning, everything looks like an impossibly sweet dream. It’s peaceful, staring at the half-illuminated ceiling, listening to the birds chirp away, and living happily in a silent utopia where nobody could bother them.
The vestiges of sunrise don’t linger; the aquamarine shade floods their eyes through the crack in their curtains, eating away at the last of gleaming cotton candy clouds.
In that way, Ami is no different from the morning sky. How many times had their pink escaped from them?
Not enough if I’m still mourning the loss, They think, unsure if the thought is theirs.
It’s nothing at all. Everyone has to grow up, pleasant or not.
Some people will reach the painful conclusion on their own.
Others will have their eyes opened, one way or another.
“Dinner time!” my mother yelled up the stairs to me. The smell of her delicious food wafted in the air as I walked down the stairs. My body felt lighter from just the smell of it. I saw my favorite dish on the table, the hot broth bubbling in the pot. It was the best soup of all time, mushroom risotto. My mother said she had tried a new recipe for this. “I’m a little nervous to try it, but I’m sure we’ll enjoy it,” she said. She dished out the plates and on mine, I saw the familiar mushroom risotto I always loved. But when I went to eat it, the texture horrified me. It was like I was eating slime. All of a sudden I noticed my brother missing. “Mom, where’s Jack?” I said nervously. “Oh, I’m surprised you noticed! He’s the key to this recipe.” I stopped, put my food down, and sat there staring at her. “What’s the matter?” my mother whispered. My jaw locked, did I hear her right? Suddenly, she said in a stern voice “Eat up, your brother didn’t die for this risotto just for you not to eat it.” She glared at me, a look I had never seen on her. That was not my mother. My mother resumed, “What should I have for dessert? I was thinking apple crumble, I’m sure I’d love it.” I was still stuck there, afraid of who this woman in front of me was. “Well, if you’re just going to sit there I might as well make dessert. Come here and help your mother.” I stayed still. “Get up,” she shouted. I stood up cautiously, eyeing the backdoor of our house. “Oh come on, you’re not trying to escape are you?” my mother said with snake eyes. My heart pounded and I thought I was going into shock, my eyes started to blur, and shrieking pierced my eardrums. The last thing I saw before death was my mother, rushing to me with tears filling her eyes, screaming for help. Not the previous version of her, but the mother I knew and loved, worrying for her little girl just like she always had.
In the dimly lit alley of an ancient city, shadows danced and secrets whispered. A lone figure, clad in a tattered, hooded cloak, moved stealthily through the cobblestone streets, clutching a small, ornate box in their gloved hand. The box, rumored to hold the key to unlocking forgotten magic, had been stolen from the city’s most powerful sorcerer, Elara the Enigmatic. The thief, known only as Nyx, was on a daring mission to uncover its secrets and, perhaps, rewrite the destiny of the realm.
As Nyx navigated the treacherous labyrinth of the narrow alleys and winding passages, a mysterious rune etched onto the box began to glow, casting an eerie incandescent light in the surroundings. Little did Nyx know that this stolen artifact held a power far greater than they could fathom, and the fate of the city rested in their gloved hand. The clock was ticking, and with each passing second, the line between savior and criminal grew thicker.
The lights around her lit up, streetlights flashing red and blue. All of a sudden, the lone figure was no longer hidden. A helicopter flew in from above, propellers snatching up leaves and trash, suddenly twirling them into a whirlwind. As she tried to escape the lights, she came to a dead end. Nyx was trapped in the alleyway, with no way out in sight. A towering brick wall stood in front of her, a tough climb for just one hand. It was either the box or her safety. Nyx had been plotting this heist for months on end, planning out every single detail and flaw that could occur. She had not predicted this. So, she came to her ultimate conclusion and grabbed the bricks with one hand. As she hauled herself up the bricks, the helicopter pinned her down with a bright light. Elara’s guards had called down to her in a megaphone “Stop now! We forbid you to move any further. If you continue this journey, you will be executed.” Nyx ignored their calls and quickly threw herself over the top of the bricks. But what she did not know was that there was nothing on the other side of this wall. Nyx had fallen into the pit of nothing that lay outside the city. The guards, knowing the outcome, had turned the helicopter around and dimmed all the lights. As Nyx realized she was falling to her death, she opened the box, and out came a flash of black smoke. The smoke carried to the sky as she descended, engulfing every single building she could still see.
Deep in the underground scene of Candy Land, an evil gang war is brewing between the candy canes and the candy corn. Both holiday candies believed they were better, and wanted to destroy one another to be the only one remaining.
“I run the holidays, don’t even try me.” gang leader Peppa-mint yelled at candy corn leader, Sweet Tooth.
“Please, you taste like toothpaste and look like a barber’s pole” spit Sweet Tooth.
“AND YOU TASTE LIKE WAX” roared Peppa-mint. Pumpkin pie rolled their eyes; another tedious argument. They didn’t even know why they were placed among candies- they’re a pie!- but they couldn’t stand noisy arguments!
Peppa-mint hooted at the sound of Sweet Tooth’s voice, a clear attempt to annoy the Halloween leader. Sweet Tooth stepped aside and talked to a small candy pumpkin. It was discrete and short, but they had come to a conclusion. Sweet Tooth lunged at Peppa-Mint, jaw wide open and bit down right on the curve of the cane.
“AGHHHH” screamed Peppa-mint in extreme horror and pain. Sweet Tooth gobbled up the rest of Peppa-mint, and burped.
I have been in the basement for as long as I could remember, though I can’t remember very much.
Always cold, always lonely, with people only ever entering to silently slide me food that could barely be classified as edible. Nothing to do but to eat, sleep, and dream of what it would be like outside of the basement. When I was younger, things were slightly better. The people sometimes brought me gifts to end my screaming wails. Tops to spin, bubbles to blow, I could keep myself soothed. But at 20, the only time I find myself screaming is when I sleep, and they know a child’s toy won’t help with that.
Sometimes I think I do it to remind myself what my voice sounds like. I’ve thought about talking to a wall, just so I can talk, but telling a brick that “I am nervous” only made me more nervous for my sanity. One of my many reminders that I need to get out, to escape. I can’t keep watching the slime on the ceiling drip down or to the flies to slowly die and feeling a faint sense of envy once they’re gone.
I can’t say that I haven’t tried to escape. But there is no key, or even a keyhole on my side of the door. No windows, and when the people enter the room, I have no way of taking them out. A girl fed only enough to keep her alive has no chance against a grown man double her weight. But still, there must be a way out, and I know I must find it soon.
