|Read Phantasmagoria here: figment.com/books/907679-Phant…|
|"She wasn't beautiful in respect to how society wants one to be. Nay, she was beautiful by herself alone.|
She lacked the tall height of her peers, lacked the outrageous fringes of models in the periodicals, and lacked the imperious glower of her mother.
Instead, she was Ophelia Ravenwood—a tiny, pale-skinned dove with green eyes as vibrant and deep as the sea. Through each passing moment, he took note of the suggestions of her natural beauty—from the way in which her red-brown curls jounced and gleamed, to the arch in which she craned her delicate neck, to the roseate blush that suffused every inch of her at the sound of his teases and jests. She was damned to be loved by few. She was damned to be unloved by many. It was just the way of things.
And yes, how fearful she was! How frail! She was a suggestion of a stroke upon a canvas, transparent and quavering. He often wondered if she was plagued. The shadows ringing her eyes were answer enough. The way in which her eyes twitched about the suffocating crowds, her brows drew when she thought, her fingers trembled when she spoke, her shoulders hunched as she walked all bespoke her calamitous and petrified state. He had nary a thing to say or to do to reverse it. It was as if any attempts to soothe her were fruitless. She was plagued with eternal anxiety, and cared too much of what other people thought; she allowed herself to be led, to be molded, to be deceived. Truly, she craved the praise of others to make herself feel a whisper of completeness.
And late at night when he'd traverse the roof to blink at the sky to see the sky blink back, he pondered how that enigmatic girl felt of him.
Or if she even felt for him at all.
For he could never tell."