(Fantasy)(Reality)

-blurring the lines-

(Fantasy)

She's leaning back lazily on a pile of bones and skulls, eyes burning in orange fire, smirking in that holier-than-thou attitude that grates on your nerves.

(Reality)

She's a mouse in the hallways, never speaks up during class and never seems to listen, always staring out the window, yet somehow she's always a 4.0 GPA every year. She passed up the position for valedictorian for some reason, didn't come to her eighth-grade graduation, and opens her locker in the quietest manner possible as it cooperates, unlike all the other lockers that seem to hate their owners.

(Fantasy)

She's dressed in Egyptian silk, a gold circlet in the form of a cobra around her head and an undistinguishable tattoo engraved into the skin of her dainty ankle. Her nails make clicking sounds as she watches you from her stack of conquests, seemingly comfortable with her position. She's like a dragon guarding her hoard and you're the thief coming for a prize.

(Reality)

You never see her in dramas or oratories, even though you see her scribbling in a little blue book all the time, sometimes sketching. She never meets anyone's eye and always sits alone outside and eats a brown bag lunch – alone, always alone. When someone speaks to her, she focuses her gaze on their collarbone and makes them nervous without even trying. They normally end up pushing her away and running away.

Maybe that's why she's like this.

(Fantasy)

You start to climb, skulls rolling away from under your calloused fingers, and the cold bone seems to burn your bare skin. Your gaze focused on her, she stretches lazily and sneers down at you, shifting so that you see the knife in her hand. She's stronger than you, brighter, tougher... there's no way you're getting out of this cavern alive.

(Reality)

When she disappears for a week, no one notices, except maybe one or two teachers. She's just a nonentity, invisible to everyone's eye and without that loyal best friend seen in the movies and cliched romances. When she comes back with a purpling bruise on her cheek and a scratch down her neck, no one says anything, not even the teachers or the counselor.

Who is she?

What happened to her?

These are the questions that, secretly, she wants someone – anyone – to ask.

(Fantasy)

You're reaching the top and she sits up straight, crossing her legs and the skirt of her dress now rucked up to her creamy thighs. Her eyes are glimmering in triumph and gloating down at you, creating a spasm of despair in the pit of your stomach. You can't stop though, not yet, not until you have what you want... to prove...

(Reality)

She's a human being, but no one seems to notice. She goes to church every Sunday, but her pastor doesn't greet her as she enters and doesn't bid her goodbye when she leaves. She doesn't go to parties, because she's never invited and she doesn't like loud noises. She doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, doesn't do drugs, and doesn't have casual sex. Her home life is a mystery to those who care to wonder for the briefest moment, if anyone ever does. She walks to school every day and back again. She's never attracted the interest of a cute waiter or a hot guy in his car when it's raining and she's walking without an umbrella or someone in a coffee shop.

No one notices her.

(Fantasy)

When she stands, you know you've reached the top and you lie there on your knees, panting. It was like an eternity climbing this and now you don't know what you've gained? Bravery? Perhaps. Intelligence? Definitely not. She drags up by the collar of your half-open shirt and you meet her gaze solidly, taking in the fire-orange-ruby-bright irises lined in a circle of black and enhanced by the kohl around them, staring at the curving dark-sensuous-forbidden curl of her lips.

You're taken by her.

You can't help but be her slave.

(Reality)

Today, she is noticed for the first time.

She's sitting in a bench in the park, writing in her book, hair falling in front her face as it always does and never seems to bother her. When you stand before her, your shadow falling over her writing, she looks up timidly, her shy gaze fixing itself on your collarbone.

Nothing is said for a moment.

"Come on," you say finally. "I'll take you for coffee."

(Fantasy)

Her kiss is like liquid velvet and the purr that envelops you like a contented cat. She's pleased by this, by the feel of your skin against hers on her pile of bones. She wants more of you and she rubs up and arches magnificently, a goddess of old. Your hands play over her curves and flares before you begin to kiss her again, please her.

(Reality-Fantasy)

You're not quite sure what you said. All you know is that she's walking next to you, clutching her notebook and pen nervously, nibbling on her lower lip, eyes downcast.

You keep your gaze on the road ahead, the coffeehouse looming at the next corner.

You take her hand.

And finally, it's as if a fantasy has splurged from pages of the imagination and wrapped around you both, tossing you into something strange and totally unreal.

Read. Review. Critique.

It's the nice thing to do.

-Summer Goose