They caged her. They caged her and beat her and broke her. They tried, at least.
They couldn't touch her. They couldn't keep her. They certainly couldn't tame her.
You could see in those bright blue eyes that she wasn't going down without a fight.
You could hear in the ripping snarl that no adorable 90-pound girl should ever be able to create that she wasn't going down at all. When she bared her sharp, small, white, even teeth, you knew without a shadow of a doubt that she wasn't the kind of girl you could tame.
When they split her lips and blackened her eyes, she went crazier. She had a crazy, wild hate in her eyes; you never knew what she was about to do.
She made me crazy, too. I loved her and I hated her. I tried to save her, but she quickly made it clear she didn't need any saving. Didn't want any saving.
She wanted to revel in her own destruction and taste the flames that burned her. She wanted to see the world burn.
She wanted to live, and they wouldn't let her. The world couldn't fathom that there was a girl in existence who embraced the insanity of every facet of this crazy, crazy place. Who embraced her own insanity and danced in it.
She was too wild to exist in their world and didn't have a world of her own. They tried to tame her, but for some girls, there's no taming them.
She once told me,
"If you love me, you'll kill me." Her stormy sea eyes flashing at me, calculating.
"I don't know whether to love you or hate you. I don't know if I love you." I replied back to her.
"Good," and she bared her teeth, "Good. Never be sure of anything. That means you know something, and you never know anything. If you had said you were sure just now, I would've killed you." She snapped her fingers, a sharp, dry clicking noise that echoed off the walls.
Another time, she told me,
"If you don't feel everything, you are dead. If every mosquito bite and kiss and loss and flash of hope doesn't resonate everywhere inside you, you have died. And for years afterward, you will try to kill yourself, never knowing that you're just playing catch-up."
Other things she told me made less sense, or no sense at all.
"Keep all your dreams silver," she told me while she was glancing her fingers across my collarbones, "But don't be afraid to let your words be blue."
It didn't make sense, of course. It was nonsense, utter nonsense...only it hit a part of me, somewhere I'm still trying to find. Somewhere where her secrets were hidden.
I realize now that she never had a chance. She was unholy and mindless and everything wrong with the world, embodied in a ruby-haired siren with too many hearts beating in her chest and too much electricity pulsing through her brain.
She was a clockwork orange, a cheshire cat, a terminal girl who didn't need dreams because whatever she wanted, she was.
She was crazy, to be sure, but she was pure and undiluted. She was beautiful, a sapphire fantasy of what tomorrow might be if you're willing to taste it.
I realize now that she never had a chance. The raw girls never do.
She tried to tell us, and we were deaf. She tried to show us, and we were blind. She tried to make us feel and we locked her up and called her crazy.
Why did we do that?
Why do we always do that?