PERSEPHONE. I am not an orchid. I am not summer. My tears do not resemble rain. The sun is not in my pupil. You have no right to love me as one loves the fantasy of an inaccessible world.

He stays silent.

PERSEPHONE. I am weak, I cry salt, and my eyes are abyssal; you are weak, you cry salt, and your eyes are darkness; you and me, and them, and the world is terribly human, terribly monotonous. I will never bring to you the beauty of June fields, the smell of ripe apricots and wild berries. I will not be able to exhale the friskness of the mountain stream on your tongue. I cannot give you the world above, I cannot light up the shadows. I don't want to be the only receptacle of life in the midst of death. I am rotting like the the others, you know.

She leans towards him, and brushes his wreathed forehead, his dark hair.

&&

Imani Abadi was a heap of flesh and guts and blood in a wax museum, crimson and warm in a place where all others are pale and bitter. Revolting red, nauseatingly alive, like a child in a graveyard who has not a single worry in the world. Her deplorable mania for analysis was exhausting, being pathologically afraid of abandonment that she ricochet between certainties and doubts. She was like arabic poetry, painfully romantic, her collarbones like wings spread from the base of her throat to the ends of her shoulders, aching from the strain of the hundreds of lives she was not living. Her girlhood was like a peach pit, growing fruit around cyanide.

And she played with the idea of being so close to death whenever she went, the metal walls of the arc being her only shield from surrounding chaos. It was like her personal dollhouse, a dollhouse with endless rules and regulations, a garden of black and red agonies. The doll would never have guessed that making friends with Bellamy Blake would allow acceptance to ring through her bones, quieting the quarreling, villainizing voices.

Bellamy Blake was untouchable. A sentimental creature with a tendency towards solitude, his heart a cathedral, feral animals clawing at his ribcage as if they were being held behind bars. Who could've known that Imani Abadi would set them free, planting a lavender garden so dense in his mind, that the knots in his chest unraveled and never tightened again. And divinity stained their fingers and mouth like pomegranate, swallowing them whole and spitting them out wine-dark and wanting. But her innocent eyes slit up his soul like a knife.

Grief would always inch its way back into their lives, Bellamy of all should've known, liberations slipping from his grasp as teenagers were stripped of their sanity in the arc and placed on a drop-ship, navigating its way to Earth. And within a second, the dollhouse became a valley. A valley where all the dolls are weapons of their own twisted, agonizing self-destruction.

Tara Emad, Imani Alaska Abadi

Mena Massoud, Zayn Abadi

Bob Morley, Bellamy Blake

Marie Avgeropoulos, Octavia Blake

Eliza Taylor, Clarke Griffin

Henry Ian Cusick, Marcus Kane

The 100 Cast, Their Respective Characters

Disclaimers,

This book deals with sensitive topics such as drinking / smoking / drugs, gore / violence, sexual themes, explicit language, mental health talk, and other similar triggers. Have caution when proceeding with this book. Warnings will not be placed at the beginning of each chapter.

The 100 universe belongs to Jason Rothenberg. 'Valley Of The Dolls' is a spin on all seven seasons. I only own Imani Alaska Abadi, Zayn Abadi, their stories, and any plot in this book that is not in the original transcript.

All new characters and plot rights belong to ©feminoIogy as of 2023 ; any attemps to recreate, translate, or republish the content within this book without my persmission will be classified as plagiarism, ©feminoIogy.

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