I've tried to write this story over and over again, but the words will not flow. There is no rhythm. There is no pattern. There is no such thing as a movement, or stir, or whisper of air that goes unnoticed by her ears, frequencies that are somehow not sensed. I can feel you breathe. She can not.
There are some nights you won't forget. They sink into every memory you thought you'd preserved, tainting it a different shade. It's not that you don't want to remember, but doing so would feel so much like cessation, total emptiness. None of that mattered after I realized what had happened…
I watched the sunrise echo through her body like an ancient curse, sliding down her frame in pink, illuminating her skin like a Christmas ornament. Pink was her color. I made her that way. Framed her. She shined like everything that could never be; glistening in our imaginations, too resplendent to be real. In two seconds, it would all be gone.
Moments are more fragile than glass.
"Do not breathe…" She cautioned, and I can feel it happening all over again. This change. This way of life. The slow, creeping sensation of the sun spilling over the city, throwing itself across the world, slashed to pieces by the buildings. The crime scene victim of the galaxy, pitying the outcast of the world. "Fiberglass. Very dangerous."
"You're not crumbling," I replied, and I can still taste how matter of fact I sounded, the words that were unquenchable, sounds that still tumble passed proper recollection. "So I don't see any danger."
The room was a barren, lonely creature, a man who turned into a beast long ago, and never found his bell of the ball, bereft of a kiss to make him real. She touched one of the window panes, hand clinking against the glass, sliding like a marble against stone. "I'm not?" She murmured. Those eyes would have been blue, and drowning in tears.
She wasn't made of flesh and bone.
Our surroundings were a stark brown, a frenzy of over turned tables in a palace of splinters. I thought I'd felt the earth shift beneath me, and the horizon bow slightly against the sorrow it beheld. Her fingers were so heavy. They could barely hold themselves up, splitting and breaking at the joints. An elegant webbing of cracks deep within her chest that extended passed her fingers, somehow.
I thrust my own hands into my pockets, warm from the friction of skin against fabric, flesh tickling with the sensation of lint. "I… Didn't know."
"They're just fractures, not death sentences," she wished, casting her gaze my way. Her dress looked more fragile than gauze, sliced carelessly in a few places. Everything about her was carved out of algid, unforgiving silver, the color of bastardization. Her color. Our color. And she still is this way, because that's how everyone else had painted those fragile, glittering features.
She tipped her head back, letting the sunlight trickle down her neck, hands outstretched to grasp the world that had cast her aside from the beginning, a moment of soft silence sliding between us. "How is this even real?" I asked.
"What?" She twisted her head towards me. I expected to hear a loud crack echo through the old, broken down factory, abandoned and overlooking a bustling metropolis. "Me? A girl who's made of glass?"
I visibly winced. "That, and… You're kind of… Impossible."
My words were like daggers. She must have imagined a place where people could understand her, where they could think and feel and love similarly, but could she dream? And where would those fantasies take her? This creature had no idea what warmth felt like. Had never known it from the lines creasing her palms, the coolness of the window pain or the frills of her dress. Had never felt anything – and yet everything, and more than everything.
"They're beautiful, aren't they?" Those syllables still tear my insides up like the shards of her fingertips. Sky scrapers stabbed the distant sky, shattering a world of blue with industrial gray, tipping the balance of nature and the hardness of steel. "Everyone else. The colors they paint across their faces. The ties they string around their necks. Everything."
"Beautiful?" I felt a pang of confusion. I'd only seen mirror images of person after person. I had not realized it then, but this young woman, with her crystalline, cool exterior, knew more about humanity than they did. Possessed that 'human element,' and was hurt by it everyday, the one thing that she could feel. "They're all the same."
I saw a grin sneak across her face, glowing like turquoise jewelry. What a beautiful color. It must have been hers. So many years of living, and the most misunderstood, strange being on this earth was also the most pleasing, somber in her elegance, and condemned for the same reason. She has no color. Her skin is without the slightest hint of pigment, shimmering like snow. Yet my mind still paints her silver as the memory floods back, the dawn drenching the glass of her body in a violent pink, make shift blood for a make shift human…
"… Like porcelain dolls."
A/N: I wrote this story at 1 AM... Be forgiving of any errors, please.