"She was too beautiful;" that was what her father always said. He said it everyday from her enchanted birth in the somber reds and browns of October, to her opulent christening in the bleak and morose days of November; he said it everyday of her childhood, from grade to grade, and friend to friend; everyday from innocence to young adulthood: every single day. And, of course, she denied it everyday. She was short, she said, too short. She was too fragile, too proud, too morose; she was depressed and histrionic. Her father said she was too beautiful, and she said she was too sad. Her father said a beautiful person should never be sad; she said she was not a beautiful person—simply a sad one.
And as she lived her life, losing her innocence, wasting her time, she continued to awake with a pensive hopefulness and dine with a somber tone. She continued to live a life that saddened her—despite her friends, despite her wealth, despite her beauty, despite her gifts. In her later adolescent years, the age when the evanescent flower of beauty truly begins to bloom and first begins to fade, black became her color of choice—austere white its accomplice. The night, cool and crisp, grim and mysterious, became her beloved hours. The day grew upon her brooding brow as she surveyed those around her: annoying friends and spiteful foes. The night became a time of seclusion, as she danced beneath the glinting pale moonlight, above the cool grass, touching her elegant feet to the soft, wild earth. The day became a time of forced congregation— crowded halls, superficial conversations, and tacit taboos that were bound to be broken. Her father still remembered her beauty, blind to her sorrow, blind to her darkness. Careless love has been the culprit in countless crimes of the heart—countless sorrows, countless transformations into shadow and strife.
The internal conflict that is love often shadowed her face. It did not brighten her smile or whiten her teeth; it did not bring color to her face. No, it dug trenches into her brow and added pallor to her face. It gave her sleepless nights and restless mornings. While her friends around her found companions, she struggled to find herself. While friends around her found joy and laughter, she found solitude and quiet nights beneath the moon or in front of the pale glint of the computer as she typed her life away in stories, poems, and epistles—letters and sonnets that no one could read, locked away in a cold, lifeless machine. There was something wrong about this, she knew; there was something that needed to be done. But nothing worked. The status quo plodded onward into the early mornings and late nights, and the clocks about her head ticked and rang, sounding another hour closer to her death.
No one understood her; no one loved her. She was an enigma, as unique as the rarest of flowers—but just as fickle, uncertain, and weak. Furthermore, she understood no one; she loved no one. Buffeted from within by a tempest of emotions—a beautiful storm of selfish desire and sorrowful innocence—she spent the day trapped in an impossible love that lasted but a fleeting weak or a dreary day. She often found happiness in distraction—the angry, craggy music that played from her room—, joy in attention—worried friends and teachers—, but she never found the love she desired. From day till dusk the somber pall of uncertain emotion and lonely footsteps haunted her, tearing away at her life, tearing away at her future. Desiring to dive into the selfless arms of a lover, she often stumbled but never leapt, afraid that she would never be caught. Her emotions became a desert, scattered with the occasional oasis too dry to sustain her. After refreshing herself in the shallow, ineffective water, she moved out unto the endless sand that was her barren life, burning her tender, elegant feet against the shifting, dancing desert.