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.

They were born bound as one.

It wasn't supposed to be this way- one sister melting into the shadow of death and the other turning her head away in denial.

When they were younger, they'd sit under the great oak tree and take turns braiding each other's hair. And she remembers how the sun, seeping onto their tiny figures from the holes in the canopy of the trees, felt on their skin, how it tinged their dark hair with the colors of the sunset.

They would walk to school every morning, hand in hand and matching ribbons pinned to side of their hair. They were all olive skin and chocolate brown ringlets and pale lace dresses. They were delicate-faced and rosy-cheeked, long-lashed and bright-eyed.

They were always as similar as black is to white- Anastasia stuffed her shelves full of books and filled her head with stories, Aster preferred to open her eyes and look at what was around her rather than blot it all out with pointless ramblings of magic, true love, fairies, and the like.

Dark eyes reflecting the sun until there was no more, hair ruffled by the summer breeze: these were their evenings for years upon years-

until they were torn apart.

With the news of Aster's approaching death came the dividing line.

Pain is not supposed to exist in a life like hers. And yet it dares curl its claws around everything she loves. She was not built for agony like this, not meant to be torn apart from the inside.

Pain is reality- she denied it once she had gotten her first taste, black and bitter.

Her childhood was warmth, bedtime stories, rocking chairs, silk sheets, and velvet cushions. She was made for satin Sunday dresses and pearl necklaces, not for tears stains and black funeral skirts.

Aster is dying.

Even as her name carved into the gravestone becomes clearer and clearer in her head, she covers eyes and turns away. Deep down, she knows- with every piece of her, she knows. And yet she finds it easier to blind herself, to blot out anything that does not fall under the light.

Her sister is dying.

("Anastasia, Aster is very ill."

"Ill?"

"She isn't going to make it.")

She cannot stop it- so she will not face it until the day Death carries her sister away. She can feel his shadow hanging over her house, sticking to their skin like ink- the more Death bares down on Aster, the more desperate Anastasia becomes to paint it over with fantasy.

("She isn't going to make it."

Her eyes stared blankly into the wall.)

She lives in a world where Death cannot touch them. It is a world of glass, utterly impossible and delicate. If one were to prick its surface with their fingertip, it would come crashing down from its core.

Deep down, she knows. But she will not see the harsh glare of the truth in her eyes until everything she has loved is gone and she is just a broken mess on the floor, never to resurface.