A bowl of perfect, fresh red apples sat in a pristine ceramic bowl, painted with intricately perfect designs of small pears and leaves, with a thick blue rim. It sat on the gleaming white marble counter, in the gleaming white kitchen, too beautiful to be real. The apples on the counter? Plastic. The white marble counter? Plastic. A perfect reflection of Aura's life. Her parents, king and queen of Caradelle, the perfect city. The fake city. Her family's praise could be traced back several generations, long before her great great grandfather was even born. And all of it was plastic. Her family was perfect-her father always stunning, her mother without a single grey hair on her head. Her brother was the hottest in town, and she herself had to be perfect. Look perfect. Act perfect. She couldn't let out any of those millions of tears she cried alone, upstairs, in her room. "Take me now," she would whisper to the heavens at night, where wild ones roamed. Much to her disappointment, her request was never fulfilled.
A little paragraph for school, inspired by the Melanie Martinez song dollhouse! I just realized I accidentally got it confused with a poem i'm writing, so i typed it as if they are wolves. They are people! Just fixed that.
