For Leanne, who never gave up and always smiled before the sun came out.


Her vocals ripped – torn savagely from those unspeakable acts – sustaining numerous tortures throughout time, just for mere entertainment.

Cold.

Her eyes were closed to the world, no longer seeing anything – consumed by her nightmares, even when she has awakened.

Torn.

Sunken cheeks, bloodshot stares, those painful bony features amid pasty white skin – a far cry from former beauty, just another curse added to her list.

Abandoned.

She carried an aloofness that could only become gained from first hand excruciating experience, of suffering – physical, mental, emotional, and sexual.

Savaged.

Huddling miserably in a filth corner, she fails to conceal her body as she shrinks into the shadows, trying to blend.

Numb.

Dried blood cakes her tear stained cheeks as her body convulses in desperation and blind fear.

Empty.

Lacerations crisscross her skin, open sores and wounds grace every inch while scars – unhealed, hold and some still raw – gleam like badges of honor, so noticeable, permanent.

Broken.

Infections festering throughout her body seeping repulsive liquid from her oozing sores – sticky yellow pus.

Hurt.

Bruises – purple, blue, grey, green, yellow, red – a colourful arrangement, display proudly against her skin without care to the world.

Pain.

Her heartbeat is faint but hammers on regardless. If only she could suppress that automatic urge to inhale and force her body to stop working. If only.

Death.

That would be bliss.

Yes.