anastasia desrosiers { ten } fin

She will always do what she does best-

run.

She is a masquerader, a master of lies and deception, two dark arts that go hand in hand.

She is ebony, darkness, when she glides through the candlelight and shadow of the De Clares's sprawling house. Mask over her face, lies heavy on her ruby red lips- she's always worn deception well, no matter how dark.

Pretending you are someone else comes at a heavy price, but it is nothing Anastasia Desrosiers is not willing to pay. These webs of lies are spun within hours, days, weeks, but destroyed in a matter of seconds. She has learned to fear destruction, has become aware of the feel of its cold breath down her back. It has made her cautious, perfect in her art. Her lies are seamless.

They have become her escape. She cannot put her trust in others- that has been proven to her time and time again. But she can trust herself, and she can trust that she will always have fantasy to fall back on.

In the end, she will always do what she does best-

run.

Her escape is her dreams, the fables she has fabricated within her mind, created a new world where those she loves are not falling six feet under, where there is such thing as love. Deep down, she knows that she is not girl she claims to be- perfect, unbroken.

She spends her days locked in her room daydreaming and burying her head her books, surrounding herself with new realities she can never truly grasp. But in the night, she will always find herself climbing down the vines that crawl up the side of her house, leaving everything behind to become someone else.

Once she hits the ground, she never looks back.

It is at parties where she can have a taste of her dreams, slip into a new skin and pretend. Even if someone did know the truth, it isn't like they would care, not with this fire in their veins and liquor on their lips. It is there, in crowds of teenagers who are just like her, who want something more, that she is utterly careless, free.

Her favorite parties are thrown by De Clares. They are wealthy as her family, perhaps a little more, and live in a grand, endless house just down the road and around the bend from her. In Ten, wealth is scarce, but they are among the lucky.

Before escaping to one of their parties, she will take her hair out of their curlers, letting them fall to her back in ringlets, stain her lips with scarlet, dust her eyelids with different shades of gold and coat her lashes in black. She will wear anything that makes her look like someone else- a short black dress, heels, a silver ring on her middle finger. It is a thrill for her to be able to shed her former image, leave behind the good girl with the bright eyes and kind smile, and spend the night in someone else's shoes.

The people who attend those parties are among the upper class, with picture perfect lives- but Anastasia knows better. No one who spends their weekends drowning in a champagne glass full of whiskey or snorting lines of cocaine on a polished mahogany table doesn't have problems.

She supposes she fits under that category, too.

Empty. Utterly lost.