Taylor's heart drops at the sound of her mother's voice echoing from the cracked door of her room. Did Veronica Townsend arrive in Wonderland, too?
She places the tips of her fingers on the door's surface to give it a light push.
"What did we do to deserve this?"
A light gasp escapes her when she sees a 7-year-old Taylor Townsend seated in front of the wall that divides her and her parents.
"She's going to need to get laser eye surgery." "Yes, dear."
Her hand raises over her chest, her features painted with a haunted visage of nausea.
"And skin peels aren't out of the question—early skin peels. Makeup won't cover the freckles that are inevitably going to taint themselves all over what might be a pretty face. If we're lucky." "Yes, dear."
Oh, god. Is this what Alice was talking about? The terrible thing.
It's not real, Taylor whispers to herself under a breath. It's not real.
But it is real. This nauseous pang of dread that spreads through her like a virus, it's real. The sudden depression that coats her very being—the sadness of knowing her last exchange with her mother, which was admittedly quite pleasant, is replaced with this hard-hitting memory—it's real.
ᴏᴛᴀ : third floor, room one
"Pathetic, absolutely pathetic."
Taylor's heart drops at the sound of her mother's voice echoing from the cracked door of her room. Did Veronica Townsend arrive in Wonderland, too?
She places the tips of her fingers on the door's surface to give it a light push.
"What did we do to deserve this?"
A light gasp escapes her when she sees a 7-year-old Taylor Townsend seated in front of the wall that divides her and her parents.
"She's going to need to get laser eye surgery."
"Yes, dear."
Her hand raises over her chest, her features painted with a haunted visage of nausea.
"And skin peels aren't out of the question—early skin peels. Makeup won't cover the freckles that are inevitably going to taint themselves all over what might be a pretty face. If we're lucky."
"Yes, dear."
Oh, god. Is this what Alice was talking about? The terrible thing.
It's not real, Taylor whispers to herself under a breath. It's not real.
But it is real. This nauseous pang of dread that spreads through her like a virus, it's real. The sudden depression that coats her very being—the sadness of knowing her last exchange with her mother, which was admittedly quite pleasant, is replaced with this hard-hitting memory—it's real.
"I hate that she's not popular. I was popular."
And it always has been.