What had she done to deserve this? Always, she wallowed. Always, she pitied herself. She was a fucking princess, but her dresses were torn and her skin dirty. So pretty and so delicate, only looking into her eyes would reveal the monster that she truly was—that she had become. The bottle lay smashed—her spiders creeping and crawling away across the concrete. She cried out, shrieking, falling to her hands and knees in an attempt to collect them up, but a shard of glass drove itself into her finger and pain rushed forth. Clutching her wrist, blood streaming from the wound, she stared, transfixed, as though unable to comprehend any longer what physical injury was.
Bruises lay like blush across her pale skin beneath the coat of soft, velveteen hair, and she moved slowly, languidly, pitying her damaged form. Only the most wicked treatment could soften her heart, drawing out love and desire in the darkest of manners. Only brutality could earn her affection. Again, though, she was alone, and like a ghost in the night she crouched, unmoving, peering at the black shadow that had begun to trickle down the pale surface of her arm—the black dress that she wore spilling out across the pavement like ink made of lace and ribbon.