winter ball main ballroom marguerite with delfina ( @frcscrs )
in the course of hours, marguerite had folded herself into the shape of a lady. over the past few months, she had made attempts to fill in the meat of her with salt and fat that matched that sketch. but despite all these hours of improvement and half-made efforts, the instant she spotted delfina from across the room, she was a young girl wobbling out from a mangled red convertible, vomiting on the side of the round looking at an unmoving body.
peter pan didn’t have the monopoly on not growing up. there were other ways about it.
it’s a funny thing, how grief and rage can be an anaesthetic or a driving force. like how marguerite could walk deliberately and quickly across the room towards a girl she’d once adored, then reviled, and feel next to nothing at all. she stops short, quick, like the point of a match dragged along the floor.
“delfina.”