She

     She has always written stories. Back then they were not her own characters. She borrowed them, claimed she didn't like character development and wasn't one for patience. She rushed through plots, threw all her ideas onto the paper in sloppy sentences and horrid replications of love. She longed for endings, for conclusions to the tragedies that formed in her mind - turmoil and hate, pain and longing, love and lust. Things that, truly, she did not understand. Perhaps her ink on the page was a hasty attempt to learn what came only through experience, but it was these scribbles that brought her to the teachings of life. It was because she was a writer.
     Everyday in each of  her classes she wrote when she could, hid the pages beneath a book when she should have been taking notes. 50 pages every three weeks. She wrote each of her tales in sagas which she passed between her friends in old project binders. Often she would leave a few extra pages for them to tell her what they thought at the end of the story. Always eager, always ready to help, she felt needed and loved by all her friends. They wanted to read more, they liked what she was doing and so - she continued to do it.
     There was one, a friend who sat at her side in math. It was the year she had skipped a grade level in the subject. The rest of her classmates were older, smarter. This girl she trusted and cared for. She too read her stories, and was enthusiastic for more. Taking great interest in the love triangles the young one fabricated. It seemed that that's all they talked about, who was going to do what and who would love who next. The writer had no issues talking about the manipulations of her characters, and grew to enjoy the attention this older student was giving her. This older student who later earned her unforgiving hate. Betrayal.
      So she fell, so naïve into the puppet master hands of the girl she called her friend, the girl she called her sister. So many questions were asked of the young mind, questions to her innocence and her understanding; questions that led to that fatal mistake that murdered her light blue eyes. A choice that brought them into gray and steeled them to the world. They opened new eyes far more accompanied to pain. Curiosity from her writings, lead her to a curiosity of her spoken word, which lead to the party where one girl died and another came into creation.
    Who would think that child would not be able to write her tales again, did it ever cross her mind? Did she wonder what would happen to her trust if it was betrayed? She walked into it blindly, her last night on earth. Into the loud music, into the mess of people. She felt small and forgotten. Where was the one who brought her here? Asked her to join her for this wondrous event? She wandered, sipping on her red cup, with its red contents. She didn't think about it. She didn't consider its smell, or its taste. She was scared before it even started; she was worried before it even began.
     Finally, in the sea of faces she spotted one she knew, the girl who now leaned against a man, laughing and running a hand through her curling blond hair. Her lips were tainted red and her dark green eyes were dull and without care. Her jeans were cut low on her thin body and her stomach was visible only because of the man's hand running up to her breasts under her tank. Smoke blew from her mouth into the faces of those that surrounded her, a solid smirk on her profile as she nodded to herself. She should her turned than; when those black eyes rose to look into her soft blue ones. She could feel her stomach turn and flip, the blame collided over top of her like a wave as she took her final steps forward, the ones that killed her.
“Danielle!” She shouted over the music and waited a moment before her friend looked down at her.
“Ah, here she is! The beauty of the ball, come here,” moving from her place against the man, her wrapped an arm around the small girl and brought her close to her. Out of place, she felt so awkward among the dressed up clowns in her powder blue sweater. There was no belonging, only dread and fear. Every second she was stared at the knot inside her tightened, and the breaths she held shortened. “This doll is going to get her present tonight girls, so give her some congratulations.”
      The hand took her arm; swiftly its firm grasp pulled her from the only face she knew back into the nameless sea. She leaded her feet down, she wanted a door, an escape but all that came with the sound click of a handle was a prison.
     She knew the room; she had painted the clay figures that lined the wall in here before. Fumes bit at her nose, her eyes overwhelmed with brown and grays. Musty, hot, empty…save him. Her fingers played against the end of her sweater, her back slid against the wall as he came forward. In her mind, there were no thoughts, there was nothing but emotions, spinning and begging her feet to run. Somewhere inside her she knew, somehow she knew, there was nothing she could do.
     Murdered was she, this innocent mind of the naïve writer. Striped bare and forced down against the concrete floor. Her screams were futile, his knife was meaningless, he was cutting her without any blade and he killed her with his weapon and left nothing behind to be found of what he took. Her hands scrapped away all untouched flesh, his mouth ate her core with teeth of blood and lips of deceit and his eyes stole her last moments, stole them and hid them all for himself. He left her to the cold, left her to the traitor, left her to steal again though there was nothing left in that body. It was cold; it was sweaty, covered in dirt, blood, semen and piss. There was nothing it in. Nothing.
     The girl that flickered life, moved her hands across the floor for the cloth that seemed so defiled now. The one that breathed heavily and used only will to drag herself from the nightmare she was trying to forget, was not the one who had first been killed. She was someone completely different, a new inhabitant in the tarnished maiden’s form. Her eyes were gray; they were empty and no longer held tears. There was no were no more screams behind her trembling lips, no more innocence locked in her soul, and there were no more things to hide. She was bare, she was hollow.
      No one remembers her, the one who never left that room. The one who pretended. This one has no need to pretend, has no need to fake the hurt in her heart and the longing for the lust she can never have. This one wants what she was denied, is denied though the walls are real, the shaking of her hand is her restraint. The naïve writer will no more write stories. This one will.