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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1677811-Doll-House
Rated: 13+ · Sample · Tragedy · #1677811
Just a smaple of the start of one story i am working on.
She withheld innocence that only good girls held, non tainted and untouched. Her looks clearly brung out her un-tainted innocence. Bright red hair, sly effort that naturally cascaded down her back just reaching far enough to rest below her shoulders and cover her tiny flat chest. Curls of hair dangled over her un-naturally large green eyes which boldly stood out from her pale white skin. Although she was not recognised for her unusual yet unique beauty by others. She was neat and well looked after, every single long back eyelash had to be alinded, lip gloss evenly smoothed out, blush only resting on her cheek bones which highlighted her perfect face. Her legs reached all the way to the ground showing there unique structure when worn with tight skinny jeans. She wore tight tops that proudly showed her tiny waist.
Her name was Phoebe
She lived a perfectly rich, only child style of life, spoiled as it may seem. Best described as the life of a cliché Childs doll house; neat, perfect and simple.
She laid out across her enormous pink bed, which was fit for a princess. Scribbling down pointless little drawings she looked around the room, shelves were full of countless academic awards that she had achieved during her childhood. Paintings and displays of her school work decorated the walls surrounding her. Soft music played in the background and Phoebe hummed and sung quietly along with the lyrics . Suddenly a small tap on the door interrupted her.
"Come in",
Her mother- Dian, Peered round the corner of the door "Tea is ready honey", she sang. And with a quick turn of her heels she dropped what she was doing and glided down the stairs, like a perfect, elegant women would. Dian was merely in her 40's yet was amazingly beautiful, she looked 5 years younger then she really was. Obvious where Phoebe gets her looks from, she was a designer, photographer and an artist, naturally talented. But she never really liked to share her work. Dian always said she didn't want attention for her work, as they symbolised things and weren't designed to make money. Most people would expect her to be a posh, 'stuck up' mother that always spoils her child rotten. No- far from right, She was caring, and not too smothering. She was always proud of Phoebe and her work- she always stuck by her side. She was not posh or stuck up by any means.
The next morning Phoebe trailed behind her mother descending down the stairs, footsteps echoed from footsteps on the granite staircase, throughout the vast empty space of the mansion, from the polished granite floors to the roof which was parted with windows that allowed the sun to shine though lighting the sparkling chandlers that hung from the roof in the daytime. When she arrived at the table it was neatly set like a queens dinner party would be. But it was just the three of them like it has always been. Her father- Greg was sitting at the far end of the table, where a king would always sit. He sat waiting for them, his eyes looked starved and his mouth was watering, ready to eat. He rubbed his hands through his silvery grey hair, he was much older then his wife but still as handsome as any elderly man could be. He owned a car company, and made a motza, but he was a very serious man , especially about his work and at time, She wished he wasn't. Since it was his number one priority, before his family, although he still adored them.

Phoebe and Dian arrived at the table, sat down in wooden chairs and placed there napkins neatly on her laps.
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