The breeze blew softly through the trees around the park, singing past the leaves. Intricate maple reds and yellows, some plucked, drifted to some unknown destination. The grass had been painted lightly in dew, soft and sweet-smelling. It was the perfect place to ponder.
And there she lay, under the bright orbs. Cold, solid pricks of light stared back at her, containing no answers, no voice to the convoluted chasm of thoughts she'd poured onto the grass and into the air.
She sighed. She didn't know why she sighed. Subconsciously, perhaps, she was attempting to create a duet with the wind, though not as musical, not as beautiful. Lately, though nothing she did ever was. It was as though she were a cardboard copy, attempting what others had accomplished precociously. And in attempting, through trial, test, and finally the beguiling beast of failure, she had sought to assume the role of another.
"What is it like to die?" she whispered into the wind. Instead of bringing forth answers, it simply sang all the more, as though perturbed by the probing unanswerable questions.
All the façades she'd used, the masks, the pretentious coward she'd been. Behind the masquerade she was still the monster, the ugly stepsister, the Ophelia-turned-Frankenstein. Subsequently caught and caged eventually by her own deceit she had become, and there she struggled with the slimy slippery hands of reality as it lashed out on her. By then there was no strength, for it had been wasted in vain on an inch thick layer of an empty existence. So she had run; away from the truth; away from the lies; but she could escape neither.
So when the bright orange sun dawned, it's deep orange and yellow and reds eking out through the horizon, marking yet another day. It dare not embrace the shadow, the deep dark shadow against the dew-painted grass.
The girl stared out through dark empty eyes, the rise and fall of a body full of life etched, torn away violently. Her neck tilted unnaturally. She swayed like a human pendulum and stared out at the new morning pregnant with hope, but contained naught for herself. Because she had finally let go in the only way she knew how. She had thrown her breath away.