Conscience: A Short Story by N.E.

What is love, in the arts of a narcissist? What is configuration, in the mind if an ignoramus? What is loneliness, confinement, in the lungs of an innocent? Why must we, as an oil consisting species, cognize virtue as lust; even as in it's most innocent form?
There she'd lay, sit, and stare into nothing; nothing at all. Her face drenched and flushed, she had never been more beautiful. Her lips, had swollen onto a violent red; beating and pulsating as if her blood desired to avenge her. She was humble, as she was distainful. There she'd sit, staring into emptiness; where she had found complacency.
She'd never been broken, she simply was adapted to this. In her optical rainfall, she'd observe her arm, drenched. She comes across an old mark, she quivers and remarks, "I-It's so beautiful". Then, she'd press her lips onto the scar, in adoration. As others may keep albums to sustain memories, she preferred this very scar; it'd pay homage in her skin, in life til' death will she depart. She'd place her head lightly between her knees, while cringed in despair. Her tears had fallen onto the floor, her own little lake of fate. She mourns her bundled memories all in a moment and weeps, violently once more.
She wasn't completely immersed in solitary. "Darling, my angel, you are so beautiful! Why must you ruin your face with a drenched mask? You are aware, if no one protects you, loves you, I always will. I will help you, guide you, hold you." She lovingly held her own shoulder, while her last futile tears showered her face she replied to the air,"I know, I know."
She unlocks her door, and sets foot onto the floors, set ablaze, once more.