Winter's cool moon.
It was painful, watching her slowly break in front me, knowing there was not a blind thing I could do to help. She broke, shattering into a million little pieces, spirit doused by a flood of tears.
Her eyes, when she finally looked up at me, reminded me of a doe's, scared- paralysed to the point that she wondered if her life was on the line, yet intelligent, just mutely so. But to see her large eyes you had to see through the veil, through the sheet of tears- it was like looking through a hundred crystal raindrops onto a porcelain doll.
Her hair fluffed around her head as he gently rest it back on the bed, bringing her knees around to the side, and she gently breathed- ignoring as best she could the clog in her throat.
I moved around and sat at the back of her bed, against the wall while she watched me over the folds of the duvet she was using a pillow for her tired and aching head.
She wearily reached out for my hand, and I complied, even though I didn't think she would be able to-
She had. Her thin fingers were entwining, and exploring my own; something I didn't think would work considering all normal bounds of reality and what I am. She hadn't noticed, or realised the extremes of what she had done, the plausibilities she had opened to the world.
Instead, her tired and broken eyes gazed through a defeated wall that reality intruded on; and she merely saw me as an item of comfort that was here. For her. The only being that was.
Realising my now corporeal status, I wondered if I should find her something to eat or drink, as the house was empty. Perhaps tea? She had a fondness for that drink.
But doing so would mean getting up, and looking at the dear child now, her empty-of-hope eyes and her sunken resignated manner, I couldn't leave her. Not even for the amount of time it took for a kettle to boil.
Shifting slightly, I leant forward and started to stroke her hair, remembering how she had almost fallen asleep at the relaxing action in a hairdressers.
We had had such fun that day, it was little wonder that now with her family back in the house she was desolate. The best times were always just us two. Other people just got in the way, and to use her words, people means hurt. People always means hurt.
I sometimes wonder what it would have been like being with anyone other than Blanche, a more normal teenager who had less to deal with- I couldn't imagine it. As I always tell her, only those who have truly experiences sadness can feel the happiest. And for her sakes I hope some time in the future she meets someone, or does something which means she can be thoroughly ecstatic.
She deserves to be, for despite her harm-induced flaws (the nervousness, jumpiness and distrust of anyone whom she doesn't already know) she really is a sweet girl. An intelligent, sensitive; and above all empathetic girl.
As I stroked her ebony hair, I noticed she was falling asleep on me. Probably for the best, the poor thing had cried herself out of tears twice that evening, and could do with the rest. Hopefully it would be a peaceful one, for even in her sleep her demons persisted.
She would spend some nights trapped in a nightmare, haunted by one person or another; unable to move, or thrashing about- and awake far more tired than she had been when she had gone to sleep. Sometimes she would barely lay her head on the pillow before she awoke again, having been ravished by one fear or another.
But tonight, tonight she sleep well, and slept deeply.
After some nondescript amount of time I tried to move, to get up- to see if there was anything I could do for Blanche that would, in some way, lighten her workload and thus her mind, but upon getting off the bed and untangling my hand from hers, found I was just as intangible as I was before Blanche had taken a hold of my hand.
I floated through the table, mourning the loss of my presence in the world, and wondered how Blanche had done it. We had often joked about what it would be like were I real or she a ghost in this world, a spirit like I; but never had either of us given it any serious thought. We both adhered to the principle that we shouldn't mourn what we don't have; possibly more out of necessity than anything else.
I floated through the house, saw what needed to be done but physically had no way of doing it. I pitied Blanche, more than I let on, for no child wants to be pitied in a situation where the adult cannot help. It only makes their pain stronger.
Going back to her, her body was ransacked with tiny jerks, and floating around to see her face, saw her crying silently deep into the depths of her quilt.
There is nothing so telling as a child who cries without sound. For that she cannot voice her hearts discontent shows of the greatest heartbreak, the greatest acts of suppression and the greatest want and need of company and support.
She wouldn't look at me, despite how much I tried to make her look up; she was utterly lost to the world and was stuck in her own reality of pain and suffering. I greatly wished that I could help her, but she seemed not to hear me, and when she did turn her head it was merely so she could breathe easier- although it seemed a lot like hyperventilating to me.
How I wish her tormentors could see her from my point of view, that they could see the supple spirit they destroyed, the plans and dreams, the hopes they dashed and the fragile, empty casing they replaced them with. How I hope the same untimely fate comes back to them.