valentine, peyton dalia

she has always been a misunderstood child; never hated or neglected, but purely an enigma, even to her own self at times. 'difficult,' her shallow parents said and brushed it off, because they had more important things to do (like film another cheesy movie or powder another boring actor). nobody cared enough to ponder on how quiet and distant the beautiful girl was, adorned with silk brown hair and hazel eyes but lacking a smile. many wondered how could she have been a daughter of vivacious marcie and hedonistic cruz, of course, but nobody wanted to really understand her. she was, after all, just their second daughter, always somewhere in the back, silently observing with her sharp eyes.

i think people are stupid. brainwashed. they crave fame and glamour, they wear jewels and suits, they think it makes them beautiful; an object of desire. they are all nothing but mass production pets, watching all the commercials and movies with an obnoxiously insane hunger, letting the media dictate their lives. it's as if these days, originality is a privilege rather than a rule - as if everyone needs someone to tell them what is the perfect outfit for summer and which haircut would make them the most attractive. disgusting, if you ask me. my mom and dad make me want to puke, being so typically hollywoodish - shallow, fake, attention-grabbing. i don't fit here. i don't want to spend my life surrounded by assholes with an emotional range of a desk.

but everyone grows up, there is no way of withstanding the nature. peyton has resigned to push her disgust aside, to make enough space for life. she may have been a bundle of misanthropy in her early teens, but through the unavoidable process of ageing, she let in to the flow (somehow betraying herself, but there is no point in mourning over the past, right?). and ending up in fashion industry, with an acid smile and outstanding creations - if she has the chance of dictating people's lives, well, she's gonna do it with style. 

'patt?' her assistant's voice echoes through the enormous hall, accompanied only by pounding of the rain outside. 'yeah, i'm coming,' is her answer, while she slowly trots over, a grey leather bag in one hand and an iphone (with a skillfully broken screen) in the other. she looks rather moody, with her forehead scrunched up in a frown, but then again, it's nothing weird, for she's sporting it most of the time. 'we need to hurry, you have an appointment with candice at five,' he states, running his fingers through bleached hair. 'oh, fuck candice. she's waaay to dull for me. let's do something fun,' she laughs it off and wraps her fingers around rj's hand. every trace of the frown is gone now, replaced with a smirk; there is also a certain edge to her eyes, but it is hard to distinguish whether it's good or bad. 'jesus, patt, you're awful. but i have coke and a dick - thank me later,' he says, quite smugly, and slaps her ass while they wander off to the exit. both young, both bitter, both sporting an acidic smile and twisted eyes.

life loves to mock all of its victims, but peyton dares to mock it right back. she's a puzzle with a few pieces lost, seemingly forever; she never ceases to surprise, never misses a chance to enrage, never fails to impress. yet, within all of the quirks and habits and thoughts, there's always been a certain contempt. she hates the fact that a young girl, sick of people, has become a fashion designer with a rather nasty reputation. peyton valentine has fallen into a trap she said she never will. and a few years ago, having her father diagnosed with some tough disease, she left, along with her family. and she thought, perhaps, it will save her - the abstinence of everything that has poisoned her mind. but it didn't.

they gave me three years. three fucking years for possessing a few grams of crack. jesus. i bet that cop has sniffed it more than i have in my entire life. but whatever, really. he drove me over to the station where they've done all this weird stuff like get my fingerprints and interrogate the crap out of me. but i gave them two thousand bucks and left them all wide-eyed in their petty nest. with another ten grams of crack in my bra, of course. how stupid. this oceanside is crap, and i miss rj. there's nothing better than a pretty gay fucking your brains out. 

(what the fuck is wrong with me?)