{ normal again. † From Ashes one shots.

marie #1 ⇝ i'm a ruin.

Nine is too young for a girl to grow up.

Too young for the monsters to creep in to your bed and smile while they do the unspeakable. While a whiskey soaked voice whispers the obscene into your golden curls and it crawls into your brain. 

The first thing to escape was a scream. Shrill. Small. Stifled. 

The second, blood. Warm. Thick. Dirtying your sheets and skin. They'll never be clean again. 

The last, tears. Blurring. Slipping. Spilling. Never to be seen again.

Tears change nothing, you decided.

My body houses nothing but rage now.

Ten is too young for a girl to grow up.

Too young for the new nightmares, new monsters. There's new strength in your veins, but it amounts to nothing. It's not power. It's not special. 

It's killing. 

They say you're not alone, which only amounts to one thing – you're not special. You've never been special. Now's no different. 

There's a small, dark-haired girl with tears in her black eyes and fury overtakes your baby blue irises. You can't stop yourself and you don't care. No one there is special. They're only weapons and you are a loaded gun. 

Your foot connects again and again. All you see is a cracked reflection. No one has a home. They'll never have a home.

Tears change nothing, she repeated.

I will become something lethal.

Twelve is too young for a girl to grow up.

Too young to trade friendship for fear. You feel your peers tremble when you approach and part of you likes it. Another part, a fragile part, wants more. You hear them awe at your prowess. So lithe and agile. 

You discover you enjoy making them think you're softer and warmer. They still fear you but follow all the same. They admire the way you speak and walk and fight. They ease into your trap when you smile.  They believe your skin isn't steeled and your heart is anything but a black pit. 

All but one. One girl with dark hair and black eyes. A girl with words she wears like armor and memories like open wounds. She is the embodiment of your karmic debt, rough and honest and beaten down. Even as you smile at her, she knows the truth. To you, she's a reflection, but to her, you are a broken window – and she sees right through, into your dead heart. 

"I kind of hate you." 

You smiled and, just this once, it was something real. There was someone worth saving.

Tears change nothing, you knew.

Perhaps saving her will save me.

Fifteen is too young for a girl to grow up.

Too young to think a smile could be anything more than that. You don't mean to follow her. You don't mean to grab her hand. You don't plan to stay up late almost every night talking to her.

So quiet, always quiet. Ask anyone.

But you're you, and she has so much to say. Weird things. Crazy thoughts. A life story and only you get glimpses of the text. 

And when did she start laughing at your jokes? She laughs so hard, she snorts and you want to stay here forever.

When did she begin seeking you out and standing by your side? You watch the sunrise together on a cemetery you're sure you'll both be buried in one day, but the days ahead don't matter. She tries her best to tell a joke and you laugh because you're happy. If nothing else, there is happiness.