four. premature mourning

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four
⋇⋆✦⋆⋇
premature mourning

four⋇⋆✦⋆⋇↳ premature mourning ↲

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WHATEVER THIS PIECE OF GLASS REFLECTED, wasn't me

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WHATEVER THIS PIECE OF GLASS REFLECTED, wasn't me. Last time I had taken a good look in the mirror, I was pure - innocent. My features were softer, instead of the frightening sharper edges now present of my facial structure. Now, my body was riddled in cuts, bruises, and burns. My dark hair was much longer, and my natural waves had turned into a mess of curls and knots. The only thing that remained of my past self was my darkened green eyes, and simple way that the light bounced off of them.

I foolishly tried to twist the knob on the sink, before realizing it was a stupid wish. I hadn't been able to get my hands on water in weeks, maybe even months.

I wanted so badly to wash away the sins of my skin; the blood that ran along my palms, sliding into each line embedded in my hand. The only thing that distracted me from this mess was the rather bulky ring placed on my middle finger. It was a Yin and Yang symbol, something of ancient Chinese philosophy. It was the concept of two differences placed together, like a negative and a positive. Something my fourth grade teacher loved, due to the fact it was a reminder. With every bad thing, there would always be a balance; something good.

My mind couldn't pinpoint anything of "good" within this new world, though. Maybe, the balance had been destroyed the second dead people began walking.

I pushed myself off of the porcelain sink, making my way into the hallway, towards the chaotic tropical room again. My hand momentarily rested on the doorknob as I listened to the sound of the boy entering the house again. I slightly grinned at the thought of what I had done—locking him on the roof—as I closed myself into the room. The yellow walls had began glowing due to the fading golden light from the sky.

Pulling the unmade covers back, I sat on the simple sheets, taking my worn boots off my calloused feet and tossing them near the wooden dresser. I looked to the achilles of my foot, running a finger over the many blisters I had gained from not owning a pair of socks. The dry, irritated skin burned to the touch, making me bring my foot back down to the ground as I reached for the boots again, slipping my feet into the small shoes, and tightening the dirtied laces back up.

𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 | 𝘤. 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴Where stories live. Discover now