There are days when she lies on the cushioned ground (why is it so soft, she wants the cold, jarring floor pressing into her head, her spine, her hips) and stares up at the ceiling, looking but not seeing, and she wonders-she wonders about the nonexistent girl in a home on a piece of land so, so far away from here.
And she wonders what that nonexistent girl is doing, who maybe, just maybe, isn't filled with these dark, swirling thoughts.
Depression, they call it, suicidal. Dangerous, don't touch, incurable-
Sinful.
Is it really that bad that she still wants to die?
Those nights she falls asleep to delightful dreams of crimson baths and shredded asphodels.
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Her Definition Of "Life"
Short Story"A sane person to an insane society must appear insane." -Kurt Vonnegut "she wasn't living" She truly believed that she had found the meaning of life. Or rather, the meaning of her life. "there never was anything in her" For her, she wanted to spen...
