#<- decided to keep this ugly thang as-is. not even fixing any typos I hope it dies

[sevicia]

My ugly notes app monster that sucks so bad and I will probz delete when I wake up tomorrow

It's okay if you don't understand. I know you're not the brightest, I'll dumb it down for you. So-

She starts whining about not being dumb. I grab her hair and yank her head back, making her look straight into the water-damaged ceiling.

I don't appreciate being interrupted, especially when I'm trying to be nice.

I'm sure you've heard this before, but you've always been more beauty than brains. Sadly, you're not much of a looker.

I sigh and let go of her hair.

Her face is all scrunched up now; puffy, wet, disgusting. She buries it into her knees.

She tries to hide, to look brave, but I can tell she's trying not to cry from the way her shoulders shake – as erratic as her breathing; she won't be able to calm down no matter how hard she tries. I know this because I know her. I know she'll keep trying, dumb as rocks; unable to see past her own nose.

The knots aren't that tight– I left them a bit loose on purpose, hoping she'd try to escape so I'd have an excuse to chase her, push her down, really scare her, but it turns out I overestimated both her intelligence and her will to live.

She was so pretty, so lovely just a few hours ago, when I was still having second thoughts about all this, when my hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold my glass, when she was still smiling and looking at me fondly – like I was something worth looking at. No one had ever looked at me with such affection – any affection! – before, and that's how I knew she was kind! Kind, and pretty, and lovely, and so, so devastatingly stupid; so perfect and so easy for me to take, to ruin and rebuild into something even prettier – something better.

I sit down in front on her. She looks pale; sickly. Is her skin cold and clammy, or is she running hot and sweaty from the adrenaline? I can see for myself now, I no longer need to wait or ask. I reach for her ankle, slowly, trying not to scare her.

Clearly, it doesn't work; she tries to kick me off with far too much force, flailing and losing her balance, making herself fall over and hit her head – thud! – on the concrete floor.

I lean over, placing my hands on the ground so I can look at her face – the parts not covered by her hair, anyway. She spares me a single glance, then shuts her eyes tight and starts shaking all over again.

I raise my voice, louder than she's ever heard it before:

You lied to me! You told me I looked just fine, all those times – all those times, you lied to me!

She flinches and tries to deny it, but her voice comes out weak, and her eyes are still shut tight.

I didn't think it'd actually work.

Don't you lie to me again, don't you dare lie!

I lower my voice back to its regular volume. I make sure to sound incredulous, offended:

You can't even look at me.

She takes a big breath, but doesn't say anything. I can tell she's trying to calm down using breathing techniques.

I stay quiet for a bit, still looking down at her, and wait until her breathing's calmed down enough that she's not on the border of hyperventilation anymore before speaking again, now in the low, pitiful whisper she's always known:

Am I really so unseemly? Tell me. Please look at me. Please tell me I'm not.

(END OF CHUNK. WHO CARES)

And now all I've got is a crumpled mess of a girl, clothes and hair almost as dirty as the floor she lays on– I haven't cleaned the place in weeks. I know how important hygiene is to her, after all.

(END OF CHUNK. WHO CARES)

Stop fucking crying, you're ruining your make-up. I'm not into the whole "broken" look with the running mascara anymore. We've done it so much I thought you'd also be tired of at this point.

Seriously?

Your throat's dry because you refuse to ask for help. I'm the only one that can help you, you know? I have no way of knowing what you need unless you tell me. You need to ask for it.

-----

Why should I bring it to you? Where's your manners?

Please, -----

Okay, that's better.

I'm not getting you anything, though. Why? Are you stupid? You keep crying and crying and whining until your throat hurts – and you think you deserve water? How do I know you won't just waste it again?

I'm leaving, I'm too tired to deal with such an entitled little brat right now.

Maybe you should learn how to play nice and be grateful– yes, GRATEFUL, and quit interrupting me before I beat the shit out of you again. I work all day, you know that? I work day in and day out so I can make you prettier – we both know you need it.

Beauty's expensive, are you kidding? Then again, I keep overestimating your cognitive abilities, so I shouldn't be so surprised.

I work all day, every day, and then I come down here to be happy, to relax by looking at something nice – and I find you a disgusting mess, make-up ruined, snot all over your face, and still I try to be nice to you. I might even be going a bit soft. I can tell you've been pulling your hair out again, but I still bring you the foods you like.

Spoiled? I don't see how that makes any difference.

I toss away anything that's gone bad – and yet I keep the ugliest, nastiest and most rotten piece of meat around, even though it fucking reeks.

I'm being nice. I'll only say this once.

I suggest you stop telling me what to do with my trash.

(END OF CHUNK. WHO CARES)

You'd be prettier if you knew how to behave.