Headphones in her ears, she mouthed the words to the song in her head, as if muttering prayers beneath her breath, and the simple act of smiling made her lips crack and bleed. Whether this was due to the fact that she carried sadness on her shoulders like a winter coat or whether it had more to do with her having lost her chapstick the week before, one could not be entire sure. Through her glamourous appearance, glamourous in how completely fake it was, lace and curls and glitter, you could see her haggard world- weary looks. She was beautiful and her name was Despair. Scars criss-crossed her arms, and a red ribbon held up her black hair and her voice was like unrequited longing itself. She spoke poetry and her every movement was a ballet.

She walked through the hallways, and all the people stared, and her red dress was a warning sign for them to stay away from her disaster. She laughed gunshots, and frowned razorblades, and when she was angry, the set of her lips was a bullet to your heart. And all the boys loved her, and all the girls hated her, and everyone wanted to know her. And she went home each night, staring at her world through kohl- rimmed eyes, and she said a few words to her mother, and she said a few words to her father, and then she went up to her room and pondered. They called her Misery.

The teachers at her school said she was brilliant, and all the boys she loved always wanted more, and she went through her days in a haze of monotony. At a snap of her pale white fingers, she awaited amusement, and at the blink of her emerald eyes the entire world was stripped bare. She thought that this world was a waste, and that it was so boring it killed her, and she wrote Disillusionment across the top of her English paper.

And the air turned frosty, and her eyes were ice, and the blood in her veins had run cold. And the people in the hallways still stopped to stare, but they never met her gaze. She had told too many lies, and even worse she had revealed too many truths, and people no longer knew quite what to think of the desolate beauty that they used to love so much. So she went home each night and she traced the word Desperation into her arms as a last attempt to prove that she was trying too.

And one day the girl called Melancholy did not show up to her classes. No one in the hallways had to worry about meeting her blank green gaze. There was no one to call brilliance, and the word spread that something awful had happened. The boys all looked stricken and the girls held back tears as the loudspeakers announced the news. They thought of the girl who had been the most despondent of beauties, and they wondered if it was their fault.

The wake was filled with viewers, people saying their final goodbyes. They spoke of the girl named Misfortune, with tears glittering in their eyes. It turned out desperation cut just a little too deep, that last time that she tried. The girl in the casket was lovely, a pale glitter shone off her skin, her eyes were closed to spare mourners her blank gaze once again. Black curls littered the pillow, and her hands clasped a single poppy.

The funeral was held in the rain, even God crying for the waste of it all, and her mother's tears mingled with the drops on her face, until she looked as if she had drowned in her sorrows. And the girl's father just stared the casket, praying silently that this was a dream, and all the gathered masses watched as she was lowered into the springtime ground. And her parent's wondered where all these people had come from, because they had never heard her mention her friends. And the name on the girl's gravestone summed up the answer to that unspoken question, they were there because everybody loves a Tragedy.