I would have posted this with my one shot collection but it seemed too long to post after that one and I decided to just post it on it's own. This is really rough around the edges and is the sole event of my sleep deprived mind (and a shit load of hot chocolate) so don't think me crazy for writing it. I hope you enjoy, but if you don't then that's just fine too and I'll welcome constructive criticism. By the way, I did write the poem and it's not very good seeing as I'm no poet so I apologize before hand. But anyway, on with the story.
This is the story of a girl
Who cried a river and drowned the whole world
And while she looked so sad in photographs
I absolutely love her
When she smiles
-Story of a girl, Nine Days
She stares out of the window far too much. That's really the first solid thought that he thinks when he sees her, because this is the fifth time he's seen her sitting in the window seat just staring into the world outside and he feels sort of guilty because this isn't supposed to be the first thought that you think about people. But it's true, because she just sits there for hours and she hasn't seemed to move an inch and her eyes hardly blink. It makes him sad, seeing her sitting there. Because her face looks so blank that it can't be natural and really, she just sort of looks like a mess if he's being honest.
But after he thinks that first thought, it sort of starts to dominate his mind and he thinks about her far too much for it to be healthy. If he explained it to people, they probably wouldn't understand because it's not like it's love at first sight for him and that he wants to desperately talk to her. No, it's just the fact that she looks so dreadfully lonely and it kind of makes him want to cry because he really feels like hugging her and telling her it'll be okay even though he isn't sure whether it will be and he doesn't want to lie.
It's just the way she seems so broken.
You see, the thing about broken people is that they're hard to spot sometimes because they don't just break down crying, not all of them anyway, but if you look hard enough and you know what you're looking for you can see it and then you can't un-see it. Sometimes it's in their eyes, or the way that they seem like they're not fully there, or the way their gaze lingers a little too long on a smiling person and you see the way they sigh gently. But when you notice these things, and it's always easier to notice if you know that you're broken to, you just can't stop seeing it. You really want to because you don't want to see this fragile person that you can't help but you just can't do anything but spot the way they bite their lip to stop the tears from flowing and shuffle too much in their seat because they want to get away from this place.
But the girl continues to sit there and stare. He thinks that she seems to spend more time there now but he's not sure; it might just be that he notices her more now. But no one else ever seems to see it and they continue on with their lives, leaving the girl with the flame red messy hair to continue being broken.
It's a Thursday when he sees her mouthing words, the first bit of movement he swears he's seen from her. He thinks that they might be a prayer but she doesn't look the type to pray, but what does he know? He knows that it was a Thursday because it was the first day of winter and it had snowed, although it'd technically been the third time it'd snowed that week. But for whatever reason, on that Thursday he found himself walking over to her and he still doesn't understand why he did. But he did and that's the end of the issue. He sat down on the little cushion beside her on the wide window ledge and he was sort of sitting on the edge because he didn't want to intrude on her little bubble too much. She was sitting there with her knees up, her hands cupped together in her lap with her head turned towards the window. She didn't speak and it was silent for a good five minutes or so and he wondered whether she'd even noticed that he'd sat down.
But then when he was just about to either offend her by blurting out something along the lines of 'What the hell is so interesting out there?' and just leaving altogether, a little voice spoke up.
"And the world keeps on moving like a fast train with no stops, with the people wanting to get off because they're sick of the same old place, but it doesn't slow down and it certainly doesn't pause. But no one understand where the train's going, no one but me." Her voice is soft, too gentle for the coldness he can now see in her ash grey eyes, but it sounds raw like she hasn't spoken for a thousand years. He still doesn't know whether she's seen him, because he knows that she's not talking to him and she hasn't even glanced his way.
"Isn't it just going to death? Because the train would be life..."
She turns to him then, steely eyes burning through his flesh like she'd just stabbed him with a hot poker, and he thinks she's going to yell at him but she's quiet for a minute or so and he wonders whether she'll talk at all. But he knows she's not angry, that he eyes are just permanently hard because that's the condition her heart's in, "It's going to something worse."
He still doesn't understand what she meant to this day and it all seems sort of sad, but then he's kind of thankful because knowing the station that the train ends up at didn't do her any good. She's six feet under, her whole body decaying until there'll be nothing left of her. He tries not to think of what might be eating her skin.
They didn't talk again that whole visit, he got up a good half an hour later and she didn't say goodbye or even move. But he went back to her a few days later and they didn't talk again but he liked that because he'd never been a fan of talkers. It sort of became a routine, she'd sit there and stare out at the tops of leafless trees and he'd sit beside her and study her face which was never changing. She never brought up the train again and she never did, but he never forgot about it.
It was two weeks later that he sat down again and she didn't move an inch like usual and he bit his lip like usual because he was wondering what had made her like this. Her hair was frizzier than usual, her curls flying out every which way and it made her resemble a fire glowing and bright. It didn't seem right because her eyes were like ice and everyone knows that they don't go together. She had tired eyes like normal and he wondered briefly if she ever slept like usual. And she was wearing a long sleeved grey t-shirt and tatty old faded jeans with holes in them and flip flops even though it was icy outside. But none of this made her look any less beautiful and he was struck by this thought because the crazy girl that didn't talk and sat at a window for hours had become beautiful to him and didn't that mean that he was sort of crazy too? But that was the day he spoke to her for the second time.
"I'm Zachary," And it sounded so weird to say that because he had been sitting with this girl at a window seat for about 20 hours in the past fortnight and he still didn't know her name and she didn't know his. She was just crazy girl to him and he knew that sounded horrible but that's just how it had all worked out.
She'd turned to him slowly and she'd blinked very slowly before staring him right in the eyes and it seemed really personal because he never had anyone look into his eyes like that and he thought that she could hear all of his secrets buzzing through her mind in that moment. "You're Zachary." Was all she'd said before turning back to the window.
It was four days after that when he'd found out hers and he didn't know why she'd chosen to tell him because it was rather obvious that he was just another stranger that was a passenger on the train with her but maybe it was because he'd invaded her compartment and she could no longer just slam the door on everyone. But she'd sat really still and he'd thought it'd be like all the other days when he sat with her and she thought and he thought and there was far too much thinking going on because their humans and humans don't think in this society anymore. But she'd not even turned towards him, just spoken, and her lips had barely moved and her voice was very quiet. "I'm Louise."
He didn't know what he'd thought she'd be called, maybe something like Solita which he'd heard meant alone or Arctic because the bitter cold outside always made him think of her, but he certainly didn't think of her as a Louise. That might be because it was such an average name and she was so not average, so mysterious and detached, that it didn't sound right for her to have anything normal about her.
She'd sighed very quietly, almost silently, and then she'd chewed on her bottom lip. It made her seem so vulnerable, more vulnerable than she ever had, and it scared him because her eyes seemed more lost than they did usually.
A month and a half had passed before they'd even had their second conversation and that time she'd been sitting cross legged instead of her usual stance and her hair had been tied back in a braid. It made her face look really gaunt, like her skin was thin and had been stretched over her bones, but they'd measured the quantities wrong and there was too much skull and too little skin so the bones showed too much. She always looked too skinny and she'd always looked like you could snap her, but she was always covered in jeans and long t-shirts or sweaters with her hair hiding her face so it wasn't like it was the first thing you noticed. But when her hair was swept back it made her look like she was suffering some sort of illness.
But he'd sat down all the same and she'd looked at him straight on with him looking straight back and he swore that something snapped inside him or shrivelled up and died and he hated whoever or whatever had made her like she is because people aren't just born like this, people get screwed up along the way and it changes them. He wondered what she was like before she changed but tried not to think about it because it made him want to cry.
He didn't know why he did it but he did, he just let his mouth form words and the words became a sentence and that sentence was the question he'd always wondered. "What do you see out there?" But then he realised that might not make sense because clearly it was trees and roads and cars and people. "I mean... You stare out of the window for hours..." He faltered and he thought he was over stepping some boundary here because they didn't speak much and she didn't know anything about him and he didn't know anything about her and you can't just ask someone something when clearly they don't like sharing. "What's out there? Why do you always come here?"
"Well you always come here too, so why do you come here?" She'd asked after a tiny little pause, a deadpan look on her face and her voice so low that he strained to hear her. Of course he couldn't tell her that it was her, that he'd come here every day basically because she intrigued him and he'd always been far too interested in mysteries for it to be deemed healthy so he just shrugged his shoulders. He knew that gave her perfect reason to not answer his question and he was sort of happy about that but she opened her mouth a few seconds later.
"And the little girl walks the streets of London even though it's cold and everyone's in bed, she walks because she wants something more and she doesn't know how else to get it. She walks each night until her little legs are sore and she can't walk any more. As the days pass by she walks less because she knows that there's nothing for her, nothing better than what she's got because it's all the same. She notices it then, that it's not the place that's the problem. That she's trying to find something to make her heart whole, to find the last piece of her jigsaw soul, but she's not going to find it because it never existed. She can walk the world a billion times but there's never anything for her. So she shouts to the sky and says 'Lord please' but he's not listening to her cries because she's going to hell. So the little girl cried but the tears ran out and didn't end up drowning her."
And it's very quiet after she's spoken, like the sort of static feeling you get when you turn off your iPod and it feels so silent all of a sudden and something's changed deep down inside of you, but he doesn't understand. She seems so desperate to make sure that no one understands her and he can't blame her because he wouldn't want people to know him either because he doesn't want to scare people away but she's like a closed door with no key and she just talks in riddles and makes him confused.
"Run fast, little child, go back home where it's safe."
They don't talk the next day or the next and the one after that he doesn't see her because he can't and he doesn't know if he wants to and he knows for certain that he shouldn't. But the one after that he finds himself sitting with her once more and she's got her hair down again and she's messing with a little elastic band around her wrist and her nails have got dirt under them and she looks paler than normal.
"Are you the little girl?" He asks and she looks up at him and he just knows that she won't give him a straight answer because she never does and he doesn't know if he'd even want to have an answer because that would means she's not whole and never will be, like a broken vase that can never be pieced together, and he just wants to help but he can't.
She smells like smoke and burning and grass but he doesn't understand why, her eyes look more manic than usual and she keeps squirming about in her seat, jumping and twitching with her eyes scouting the room, darting from one thing to another like a deranged animal.
"Once a little girl got a scraped knee
But her mother got out the band aids
And gave her a glass of milk
Oh how the girl cried, but it was alright in the end
'Cause her mother was there to clean up the mess
And her dad kissed her cheek
And her crying soon stopped
Because she knew she was going to be alright
Once a little girl fell out of a tree
And her mother sighed and rolled her eyes
But got an ice pack out from the fridge
Oh how the girl cried, but it was okay
'Cause it didn't hurt too bad
And her dad didn't say anything but he smiled a little
And she only cried a bit
Because she's a big girl and she was going to be alright
Once a little girl tripped down some stairs
And her mother told her to be careful
Told her to clean herself up
Oh how the girl cried, but she sorted it out
'Cause she was old enough to care for herself
And her dad didn't even seem to notice
And she tried not to care
Because she should be a brave girl and be alright
Once a little girl got in a fight
And her mother shouted at her for being so stupid
Said she should sort her shit out
Oh how the girl cried as she sat in her room
'Cause it wasn't her fault, the girl told her to go die
And her dad wasn't around to know as he left years ago
And she didn't think about him
Because he didn't think about her but she tried to be alright
Once a little girl slashed her own wrists
And her mother found her body in the bathtub
But it was too late to do anything
Oh how the mum cried, because she was to blame
'Cause she should have known
And her dad got a call from the hospital
And they all cried
Because their little girl was gone and it wasn't alright."
And he just sort of sat there for a few long minutes because he didn't want to think about her being the little girl in the poem, of her hanging over the taps in a bathtub dripping with blood with the kind of pale that only ever came with death. So he just turned away and didn't say anything because he didn't know what to say besides shouting 'stop saying stuff like that' while shaking her hard.
But just before he went two hours later he'd turned to her after he'd gotten up, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans and his eyes searching the floor tiles as he said in a hoarse voice that was thick with emotion,
" Once a little girl was a little broken
And her mother always said mean things
Leaving her to clean up the pieces
Oh how the girl cried, because she felt so hopeless
'Cause she felt she had no one
And her dad may not see her
And hopefully she might meet a boy
Because it was destiny and the little girl will be alright."
And then he just closed his eyes tightly shut because that made it sound like he was the boy and God, he didn't want her to think that but he just wanted her to know that she was going to be okay in the end and that she kind of had him. "I think you should replace the last verse with that." He added before turning around and leaving.
They didn't see each other for five days after that because he was trying to process their last visit and he really didn't think he could take something so heavy again as it sucked the life out of him and made him feel really drained. But on the day that they did see each other again, she'd moved from the window seat and had taken a seat at a little plastic table. The seat she'd sat on had been one of those little children's ones but it was scary how easily she fit in it and how it didn't even look that small for her, the only problem being her height. He'd taken an average sized chair across the table from her and it'd been far too big for the tiny little table. She'd kind of smiled and it was the first thing he'd seen that resembled anything like a smile so he smiled back.
"Why did you keep coming back?" She'd asked as soon as he'd sat down and he'd sort of twitched up his eyebrow in a rather amusing way as an unattractive snort came out of him because he just found it funny that she was speaking first and that it'd taken so long to ask.
"Because I liked your joyful company?" He'd said sarcastically and the little sort of smile came back again and he gave himself a mental high five because two in one day was practically impossible to believe. But she'd followed it up by opening her eyes really wide and looked at him in a sort of crazy way, with her sticky out hair she looked like a mad professor. "You just looked really lonely."
She'd sat back in her chair at that, shaking her hair from side to side so that her hair sort of bobbed and he didn't understand why. Was she denying that she was lonely? He didn't know, but she just shook her head quicker and quicker until he knew she must be feeling a little dizzy. She did this for a few moments before he started to worry that she wasn't going to stop so he place a hand gently on her knee under the table in what he was hoping was a soothing gesture. But she jumped and his hand flew back to rest on his knee. He ended up having to go for help because he was scared she was going to hurt herself. He stayed for a little while but he couldn't cope with the way that she started making these funny noises at the back of her throat, like a tortured animal. As he walked out he could hear the sounds of her shrieking.
He wouldn't like to admit it, but her shrieks filled his nightmare and all he could see was her cold eyes burning through him when he closed his eyes. Her eyes haunted his thoughts, imagining them peering out from a dead lifeless body.
After the incident, as he'd named it, they started to talk more. And he didn't know why and he didn't know whether she'd shut up again soon, but he liked the fact that she was opening up to him. They'd talk about books and music sometimes, she'd tell him that she wrote songs sometimes but she mainly just wrote poems. She'd tell him that she didn't have a favourite book because she liked them all as they all captured a little part of the author's heart and they captured a little part of the reader's heart too. She'd tell him that she hated the sunshine but loved the rain because the rain washed the slate clean. She told him that she sometimes felt very sad when she looked at the people around her because she wondered who'd had their heart broken and why and how maybe no one would know or no one would care. She told him that she always thought about the stories of others and how sad it was that people may not ever hear them, how some tales are never going to be told or listened to. She would never laugh and she would never smile, but she talked and when she talked she sort of made him want to crumple up in a heap and just sort of not exist for a little while because the world was sometimes a horrible place to be.
She'd listen as well, God how she'd listen. He'd tell her everything about him, all of his deepest darkest secrets and all of his problems. She'd just sit there and not move while he spoke but he could tell that she was listening because her head was tilted to one side and she was leaning forward slightly. Then she'd just be very quiet and he always felt like he'd said too much and he was always waiting for that one comment he'd become very accustomed too, 'are you psycho?' But she'd never say that and while sometimes she didn't say anything at all, she'd never judge him. She'd sometimes tell him some of her weird little riddles and other times she'd ask him questions or offer some deep, insightful piece of knowledge but she'd never judge.
He asked her about it one day, why she never judged him when he said some horrible things and she'd laughed. It'd been the first time he'd hear her laugh and he'd wished he hadn't heard it at all because it sounded bitter and cold and it didn't sound like a laugh at all, although he doubted any sort of laughter would sound right coming from her lips.
"Oh, Zacharias, didn't you ever get told that everyone has a battle to fight? That you should lend a sword when you can because they're not going to win it alone."
She'd always called him Zacharias and she'd said that it was because she'd liked that name better. He'd tried to be offended but he liked the name falling from her lips and he just couldn't. She really was very beautiful in a terrible sort of way; it was a haunting thing to see. To look at a girl that was so deadly beautiful but to see her so deathly broken.
She'd reached into the pockets of her jeans and pulled out the little tops that you get on glass beer bottles and started to spin it on the floor in front of them as they both sat cross legged beside the huge glass wall that over looked the city below. It was night time and the buildings in the distance were all lit up and it was the only light besides the moon, the streets were bare and there weren't any street lights because no one would dare come into this part of town at night so there wasn't any point. The moon was big and looming, usually he liked the moon but tonight it looked daunting because it cast shadows across the two of them which gave him a chill.
After her death he'd always thought it was really ironic that she told him that she'd help him fight his battle but wouldn't let him help her fight hers.
The next time he saw her was only a short visit because she was vacant and didn't really even seem to notice that he was there, she'd just sat staring straight ahead into nothing in particular. Her face was distant and he could just tell she wasn't even there, that she couldn't see what he could see because she was in another world. He hoped desperately that her world was a lot better than this.
He didn't know what snapped inside of her, he knew that she wasn't fully stable and fully there but who really was anymore? But his visit after that was his final one and it was the memory he visited most of her because he would forever wonder what he could have done. But they'd both been sat in her 'hiding spot' in the girl's bathroom because one of the cubicles had no toilet and a little seat instead where you could close the door, sit cross legged just about and no one would know that you were there. She'd been quiet but she'd been quiet most of the time he'd known her so that wasn't very different. And she'd not seemed unusual at the time but looking back he should have noticed the way she kept reaching out to touch his hand like she didn't believe he was there, he should have realised that she was doing it because it was the last time she'd ever see him again.
You know the old, abandoned cafe across the road from here? Auntie Ester's?" She'd asked as she fiddled with the cuffs on her sweater, pulling at a loose thread so that some of the fabric unravelled. "I was looking at that."
He realised what she meant after a few seconds of confusion but then it'd hit him. She was talking about why she looked out of the window a lot, she did that a lot. Going back to previous conversations or questions and answering them completely at random. It was like everything was a jumble and nothing had a chronological order any more.
"My mum goes there sometimes; she still has the key because we used to own it you see. And I could see her out of the window, her hair the same shade of brown even though it should be greying and her posture still as good as it always was, the kind of posture that made you think that she was constantly looking down her nose at you. She was across the street from me and she didn't visit me. I mean, I'm not surprised but it'd be nice to know that she cared at least a little."
"She's not worth it, if she doesn't want to see her own daughter," He said but she was talking over the top of him and she either hadn't heard or didn't care. She wrapped the little thread from her jumper around her finger as she spoke.
"I mean, I know I made mistakes. I wasn't the best daughter; I was always loopy and crazy. But I tried, I tried to make up for it and be the best daughter she could ask for but she never cared. She never fucking cared about me. I tried to make it all better so that's got to be worth something." He knew then that she wasn't really talking to him, not really. She was talking to her mother, saying the things she'd always wanted to say. Her voice cracked on the last word and she looked up at the ceiling, reminding him of the little girl who looked up at the sky and screamed to the Lord.
"I think that's what counts... I mean we all make mistakes. Maybe what defines us as people is not how many mistakes we've made or what the mistakes were, but what we do about them afterwards," He whispered very quietly and she turned to look at him, taking his hand for the third time and squeezed it very gently. He thought that she was saying thank you.
"I hope that everything turns out okay for you, my dear Zacharias. I really do. You'd be a really good prince charming for someone. But I'm afraid it's too late to save me. I have these battle wounds, you see, and the battle I was fighting was me. But I think the wounds are going to break open and suck me right up... We are all born with this little baby monster inside us and while some people kill it; others let it grow and fester until it takes over. My monster's not just a monster any more, it's me."
He'd wanted to argue but she'd just placed her finger on his lips and shushed him before closing her eyes. He'd found himself doing the same. And they'd been sitting there in the smelly old loos in a girls bathroom where the taps were dripping and you could hear something scurrying through the pipes above their heads and one of the toilets kept randomly flushing and spurting up water so that it trickled under the door. Their knees were touching and suddenly it all went quiet, dimmed down like sound was a switch and you could set the volume. Then she started to hum. He didn't know the song and he didn't even know whether it was a song or whether she'd made it up on the spot, but she sat their humming and he'd sat there quietly.
"I'd like to not exist for a little while, to go to a place where things get put into their place and hopefully I'll be put in mine too. I want to not exist, to not feel and to not see and to not speak. I don't want to think or hear or breathe. I just want to escape. To escape from here and be alright," She said softly and then it was quiet once more.
When they opened their eyes, a light orange fluttering was drifting through the window and casting its gaze on her face and she looked so beautiful that he wanted to kiss her. He wanted so badly to take her face in his and tell her that she would be okay because he'd help her be okay, to kiss her on her lips until they both couldn't breathe and make her feel whole again. Maybe if he'd done that then things would have been different. Maybe not. Who was he to say? It is silent now.
And he'd left, she'd squeezed his hand once more. She didn't say another word and he didn't either because he thought that he'd have so many times to say so many things that he didn't need to. They just parted ways and she mouthed that she'd miss him as she walked away but he didn't see because he'd turned his back and hadn't looked back. She'd watched him as she stood in the empty hallway, watched him walk away for the last time and tried to appreciate being alive because she never would again and even if she hated this place she really did love him in a strange way and she thought that he'd want to know that she'd looked at the way the trees stretched towards the sky with their grasping hands and soaked up the sunlight. To know that she noticed the way the light bounced off the linoleum floor and made her shadow dance. To know that it hadn't been his fault and that he couldn't do anything, if seeing the sunset wasn't going to keep her around then nothing would.
She was selfish, but she was human so it was to be expected.
He'd found out the next day when he'd come to see her that she'd hung herself the night before, been found by a nurse that morning. No note. No explanation. And he hadn't been able to cry because he'd felt so very numb. He'd thought about all their times together and then thought of the last time and just felt so very empty. He'd went into the toilets that they'd spent the day before in and he'd broke down with these choking sounds coming from his throat but he never once shed tears because he was past that feeling. He was a tortured soul who was shouting because it was all he could do. At one point someone must have come in, scooped him up and helped him to the little plastic chairs and forced him to drink water. But he couldn't remember this as he sat there with a glass of water forced into his hands and a woman looking at him sternly in a way that said 'I'm-not-going-to-let-you-go-too' and he wondered whether this woman had known her. Whether she'd spoken to her. Whether she'd known her.
He can't remember her funeral or visiting her grave, even though he was told that he had. He can't remember shouting at the priest that God was a prick for letting this happen and he can't remember being dragged away from the chapel. He can't remember curling up in a ball in their window seat and punching the window so hard that his fist bruised, but that's how he'd woken up the next day. He'd been bleary eyed and tired as he'd stumbled around, not really seeing anything and not really hearing anything but just walking.
He was asked so many questions but he never answered because it wasn't her asking them. He just felt so very alone and he hated her for leaving him because he needed her and why wasn't he enough for her? Why had she done this selfish thing when he loved the fuck out of her and he would have helped? He would have done anything. And she'd been fine the other day so why had she done it?
Months passed and he got better, or at least as better as he could when she wasn't in the world. And he thought about their conversations and the things she'd said, wondering how he had left her that last day without saying even a goodbye. He'd felt so guilty in all the months that followed because he should have done something, anything, and it was only when he was sat in the window seat and the lady that had gotten him the water had sat beside him rather like he'd sat next to her that first day so long ago. And she'd placed her hand on his shoulder, didn't ask the stupid 'are you okay?' question that everyone else said.
"The crime of humans is to beat yourself up over things that you had no control over. You can mourn her, honey, mourn her all you want. But don't feel guilty. It wasn't your fault. Louise was a very troubled girl, a beautiful smart girl, but troubled all the same. Nothing you could have done would have changed things. She was taken away from us in such a cruel way, but she chose it. She was the one that did the deed and you didn't help. You weren't there to pull the string tighter around her neck. This won't be easy to hear, it isn't meant to. But she did this to herself and it's her own goddamn fault. She was a stupid girl for doing this, probably didn't think of the consequences. But she was so horribly sad and she just wanted to get out."
And the woman had got up and he'd felt like punching her or punching himself but he didn't do either. He'd just sat there are thought about what she'd said and he'd cursed a lot and said that she was a bat shit crazy lady but the more he thought about it the more it all started to make sense.
Because while he didn't understand where her train was heading, he did understand that to get off the train before it reached its destination was what she'd done. She'd gotten off, found her escape, found a way out and that'd been what she'd wanted all along. And he realised then that there could never have been a different ending to that poem because she'd wanted that last verse, she'd planted the idea in her head and it wasn't going to have gone away. It was going to niggle into all of her thoughts until it took over; the little girl that had the lost jigsaw piece was always going to end up shouting at the sky.
A girl like her didn't fit into this world; she was too sensitive and too fragile to everything. She'd seen things that a girl wasn't supposed to see and there was nothing to make her forget. She'd become broken and there wasn't any glue that could put her back together. Louise was just a girl who thought too much.
See, she always said such beautiful things, the words falling off her lips like broken glass. But nobody ever listened to what she had to say, because they didn't like what they heard. People are addicted to pretty lies. She would always speak the truth even when it was raw and hurt everybody around her. But that's what he liked about her; she would always speak the truth when everybody else was afraid to.