Tragedy Is Defiant

Mirage

She saw him many times before. The sun shone in his eyes. Green orbs reflecting off of the lamp in the room. Heart pounding…skin shivering…stomach dropping…But her eyes leaked. No chances with him. He’s too perfect. None. Too slim.

Still, he made her tremble inside. She shook out of thoughts of her in his arms. Spinning reels of thoughts in her head. She twisted her hair in her hands so many times like the pen she used to draw him.

Those pictures, portraits, perfect images hung around her room. They blocked out light at odd times of day, tinted it so you can see the silhouette on the walls. She dreamt of him, imagined her life with him. Sweet, amazingly perfect.

But as she walks down the halls, eyeing him as he walks past, she knows she doesn’t stand out. She thinks of how perfect their world can be, but she realizes it’s just wishful thinking. So at home, alone in her room cloaked with his drawings, staring at the rose she plucked from the garden, red, silky, beautiful, she feels more alone.

But she thinks of him, sitting, watching, helping, loving…but she knows she is dreaming of a mirage. So she says to herself that she is worthless, sickening, a dumb fool…and draws one last portrait, this time of the two permanently locked together in a loving stare. Each line, curve, smudge is perfect. Even the dreaminess in her eyes is intact. She knows he will never see this. With this in mind, the picture is tucked away, under her pillow with the hopes it will become something more than a dream.