She was so close she could taste it.

She'd been here forever, rotting, eternal, dying, immortal.

He loves me.

Grab from the base and give a soft tug, don't want to tear it, it's ugly when it's broken and tattered and flopping to the ground. She wanted it pretty, had to keep it pretty, had to keep it perfect. She hated what it symbolized (burning passionate fiery hate and she hoped that this hurt him just like he'd hurt her) but she needed to keep it pretty, keep in it perfect.

It was her ticket out.

And she needed to get out.

"Hey, Ib? If only two of us could get out, what would you do?"

"I would leave with Garry."

She hated him.

He loves me not.

The petal tore.

He loves me.

She was so, so close. Soon, she and Ib would be out (out out) and she would get to live and bleed and smile and cry and do all those other things that the storybooks talked about. She would miss her friends, her dolls and her mannequins ("Mary? Mary, where are you going, Mary?" "Out, I'm getting out." "Take us with you, Mary, take us too!" but she can't, there's only room for one you see and she's so, so sorry) but she had to leave. She was rotting away in this place, rotting like a rose out of its vase.

'A rose,' she giggled. 'That's nice.'

He loves me not.

It was all his fault. If he had stayed away, if he had done what he was supposed to then maybe he would have made it out. But no, he just had to get closer to Ib, just had to make her like him (Ib Ib MY Ib you can't have her, can't take her) and now he could sleep here forever. Just one more petal and he would sleep forever.

…Forever was a long time.

He loves… He…loves…!

No, no, no. She couldn't feel guilty, wasn't allowed to feel guilty. She had to get out out out and he was in the way, in her way (GET OUT OF MY WAY) so he had to go. She had to leave and feel the sunshine on her face and smell the flowers, not her crayon flowers but the real ones. Just one more petal.

Grab from the base and give a soft tug.

"Yay! He loves me!" She cheered, throwing the stem into the air and dancing wobbly pirouettes on the fallen petals. She was free, finally free. No more dark hallways or days of loneliness ("Mary, Mary, what's wrong, Mary? Mary? Where'd you go, Mary? MARY TAKE US WITH YOU"), just happiness and sunshine and Ib. All she had to do was find the painting. Then she was free.

She was so close she could taste it.

It tasted like candies.

A/N: Guys, this is word vomit. Seriously, that's the best thing I can say about it DX This is what happens when I decide I don't wanna pay attention in French class.