Alice has always dreamed about being like her father. Writing things people actually want to read. She has spent her entire life learning the different types of poems and perfecting them, creating stories no one in their right mind would think of. She was so enamored in her writing, no one could penetrate the circle between her and her work. She only truly cared about her writing, trying to be as good as her father. All her relationships failed, her love life was gone and she had few friends. She had dated a few boys but it never worked out, they would try to pull her away from her work and she couldn’t let that happen, she had to make sure everything was perfect. Her friends would invite her out but she refused she had to proofread her writing and make sure everything was perfect. Perfect. Perfect was a word she used often. She used it every time she talked about her work. She wanted to make her father proud and if it’s perfect he would be. See, she said it again. Perfect.
Alice wasn’t perfect though. She didn’t believe she was beautiful, she didn’t think anything about herself really, she only thought about her work. She didn’t realize how empty her life had been until she wasn’t working on anything. The company that was publishing her work told her she needed a break, to take some time on her own. She hated it. The large house in London she inherited from her father was so vacant and she just realized. Walking down each hall looking at the antiques and portraits of family members was the only thing she could do. Everything around the house began to haunt her. She could see the parties held in the past, then see she was alone. She had no one to call, no one to hold her, no one to call her own.
