The sun towers above me, it is taunting me. The warmth barley reaches me skin, it dances across the surface like water of the blacktop.

I want to reach out but I can't. The person in front of me just stares. They just keep staring.

It makes me want to burrow underground and never come out. When I finally raise my arm, my fingers graze his arm, he raises his hand to mine and smiles. His fingers curl around mine, and mine tighten around his.

His smile is short lived because I do not speak, I merely stare at him, my eyes boring through him.

It does not matter that I am breathing, Or that I am thinking, or that I can feel.

It does not matter that years of pain have eased and that I am no longer 'troubled.' because I am.

Who I was no longer is me. Who I will be is unpredictable, who I want to be is to far out of reach. Who I am is nothing.

"Jenna, can you please talk to me?" He asks, his eyes are pleading and desperate.

"What is there to talk about?" I whisper, and he seems ecstatic, wonderfully amazed by the sound of my voice.

He knows that tomorrow he'll have to start all over again. I won't talk, or move.

It does not matter that I am breathing. Or that I can think. It does not matter.

I am dead. Empty, abandoned.

Everyone but him has given up, Everyday he is told to let go, to let me be in my misery, or insanity (or what ever it is I do now, because they do not know.)

I seen to much, Held to much, felt to much, and lost to much.

It does not matter that blood is pumped through my veins, because it's been spilled so much, I feel as though I'll never run out.

It's not the cold feeling that starts in my finger tips and spreads it's way through my body that causes me to shake.

"Jenna...Please...Take a walk with me?" He says. It feels weird, because it sounds like a request and not an order.

I nod once, My hair falling into my eyes, and he smiled again.

He helped me up, his fingers intertwined with mine.

When I walked out of that place, everything felt foreign. The wind washes over me like a water fall falling over the cliff and down onto the rocks below.

I liked the feeling.

His hand stayed intertwined with mine and he stayed as close as natural law would allow.

I was troubled after all, He offered himself to watch over me, and now he bears me as his silent burden.

"Where do you want to go?" He asked, I was unused to having a choice at that point, so it took me a moment to register.

A plan came into my mind, "That way." This place was my home, I knew where everything sat, So when I pointed right, I knew exactly where we'd go, but not what he'd say.

"Okay." His response surprised me, His eager nod and quickening pulse in his hand. He wasn't going to question me like the others? If I Remember correctly, troubled girls are questioned.

We walked for a while, In silence. He wanted me to talk to him.

"Things are different." I say, The flowers have bloomed and the create a sickening path of reds and blues and purples.

My hands are shaking again, but he doesn't notice. We near my destination, And tears form in my eyelids.

He tightens his grip on my hand.

"They tell me that your crazy, insane, and everything else they can think of that justify your thoughts." He whispers, standing and looking out over the cliff. "But I don't think they need to be justified, because they're your thoughts, so why have an excuse to think them, I know your not crazy."

Maybe he knew all along what I was going to do here, or maybe he was planning on doing it himself, but I was suddenly at ease as he wrapped his arms around me.

"I am Troubled."

"There are things in this world that make no sense, things that are wrong, twisted, you are not one of them." He says.

"Why did you keep coming back, why didn't you just listen?" My voice is quiet, and still empty.

Suddenly, I can feel again.

"Because I love you."

"Together?"

Everything goes slow motion as I take his hand, and my mind flashes every nightmare and every future in front of my eyes. Our names lie separate from those on the monument.

We are the warped ones, the ones who do not feel lucky to have lived.

I think of how fleeting pain will be, and how welcoming death will be. I think of how finally I will run out of blood.

Some might say it is a troubling thought.

They might say I'm a troubled girl.

But I think the world is troubled.