Her eyes gleamed in the light reflected up from the soft new snow but all that surrounded insinuated death. Her beauty was the the only thing alive in the middle of the lot. Nothing seemed rightly placed around, nothing signified how much potential she had, and nothing seemed to be right in her world. Her best friend recently died, she also lost her singing talent due to a horrible cold the doctors weren't even sure she would pull through from, but she never was bothered much by death.
What hit her heart most was the break up between her and Patrick. They dated for four long years, high school sweethearts almost. he was not the kind of guy most girls go for, short, scrawny, almost dead-looking. He had pale skin that enhanced the strawberry colored gashes and in-set letters he cut into it. His lengthy "emo" hair was dyed a sleek charcoal black, and his bright blue "killer" eyes shown out the most. Any time she would stare into those eyes it would seem like she was looking into a cloudless blue sky on a sunny summer day. She could never forget his touch either. It was as hot as lava and made her ice-cold soul melt into his out-stretched arms that would grab a-hold of her tight like a big snugly bear hug.
He always knew how to make her smile, and cry, and throw a fit. He never said a wrong word until the day he left her. They talked every night they could till the sun came up and would talk even more during school, even to the point of getting their phones taken away during class for texting. Her dream guy, as people would say, would go on forever about his band and guitar and songs she didn't even know existed! But Ayla always smiled and acted interested to make him happy. Rarely had she purposely angered him, but when she did she claimed it was because he "looked so cute mad" and he would stop and laugh with her at it. When she would have her anxiety spells he would always hold her and let her cry it out till she was better, then go on to tell her he'd die for her. She never questioned his word because she trusted him, after all he meant everything to her.
Nothing in her world was as important as him. When she found out he got a new girl just days after he broke it of with her she forced herself to stay home so she wouldn't break down in the middle of class. It took weeks to almost fully recover. She could barely look at him without acting strange. One day he passed her in the hall and she ran into the bathroom to cry. She would sit alone at lunch so nothing could remind her of him, even though she didn't eat. He never showed a sign that he cared about her anymore which made her even more dull looking and worn out like an old oil rag someone had used for decades to shine their most prised possessions. She was just thankful for she didn't have any classes with him at that point.
School ended and her best friend, Cassandra, committed suicide, The note she left behind told of why she did it, her parents abused her and she couldn't handle it anymore. They soon were arrested after police talked to her younger brother who they also abused. Cassandra was beautiful, gorgeous even, long ruby red hair that complimented her smooth, classic ivory skin and a pair of pale green eyes with blue-gray flecks scattered throughout. She wasn't envious of Cassandra, she just knew she could never look as pretty as her. Not with her looks, hell she couldn't even keep the corpse!
She would stare in the mirror for a good two and a half hours every day with a sullen look trying to make her boobs look bigger like Cassandra's, brushing her hair desperately trying to make it smooth and give it that "fresh out of the salon" look, even practiced putting on her make-up that never seemed to be the right shade to make it flawlessly perfect. She would pick out several different outfits to try and impress someone walking by, but ended up wearing her usual scratched blue jeans and a plain T-shirt from A.C. More.
Sometimes Ayla would try, but it wouldn't seem right. Nothing she had looked right with her skin, roughly touched by work and a marred childhood but a buff beige tone that didn't very well match her copper polished chestnut hair color, nor did any of her appearance go with her dull green eyes that always seemed to have scratches and squiggles of a California Ocean blue cluttered about. She always wondered why people used to say she was pretty, probably some high-off-his-ass jerk that was looking for a good time but all the pretty whores were taken and she was the only thing left. Usually she just moved along or politely declined.
None of those things bothered her until night. Always dreading the night to come she would throw back a few Tylenol P.M. to help her relax and sleep and when that stopped working she moved onto pain killers, at first one or two then climbing up to a hand-full to help her keep her mind at ease. Soon that didn't help and she would consume more than her body could take. Her mom found out and took them away nearly saving her life from an over-dosage caused death. That was until she caught the cold.
When she was with Patrick he would insist on hearing her sing at least once a day, even if it was before they had to say goodnight. Usually she would sing a number by Pink or A Fine Frenzy but when it came to a lullaby she always chose her favorite, Hush-A-Bye Mountain. In time she had caught a bad cold, she was bed ridden for weeks. Her lips lost the crimson touch they once held, rosy cheeks became white clouds, and her skin turned into an ill dully pale yellow. Worst of all she couldn't talk. Her throat became inflamed and swollen from her sinus drainage. All that bacteria floating around got into her a bit too much and marred her voice. When she got better she could talk right again, but tried to sing and couldn't pull a clear note.
Singing was all she had to make into something, now that too was gone. She was on the verge of suicide but decided not to, make the best out of what life she had left. She also had to take care of her mom, Kari. Kari was a heavy alcoholic and decided not to get help, instead the bitter beer she drank so often turned her rotten. Every school night she'd drink, hell every night she would drink. Sometimes she drank in front of Ayla and her friends, but mostly with the neighbors or at home with only Ayla around. She remembered so many times her mom messed up her life with drinking. There wasn't anything she could do and knew it, couldn't get out, help her, tell someone how bad it hurt her, nothing. All she could do was hide in her closet, way up high, and cry to herself.
She would often leave to visit the nearby graveyard and walk around. After Cassandra died, she would sit by her grave and still talk to her, keep her informed of what was going on with everyone and everything. Now and then she would see Alix walk around the graveyard. He was a somebody, the somebody that people heard about even if he didn't know them. There was hardly a girl that didn't like him for his far away looks, but those who got close enough saw he was scruffy to the touch and reeled back. Ayla lived near where he moved in not just three months before she dated Patrick. Her mom knew him well enough to tell she didn't approve of him by his reputation. Ayla would always see him looking at her but she never repaid the glares, instead just walked on with Patrick.
Patrick hated Alix to the very depths of his bitter self, which few knew was what most of him was. Sure, she saw him around a few times, talked to him about twice, nothing for an assumption to be made on them. Right? Before Cassandra passed, Ayla found out he got one of his ex-girlfriend's pregnant, of course from Cassandra who heard from Beth who was another ex-girlfriend of his. He had many for only being there 3 years, and most of them new a secret Ayla would soon find out. Then again her dreams led her mind to wonder off and run images of her and Alix through her sleep.
Sleepless night after another, Ayla finally decided to venture to the graveyard. Of course it was mid-winter and she chose to go out in tight jeans and a loose hoodie. She stumbled out the door with wind colder than glaciers whipping her flesh and skewing her straggley hair wildly above and behind her. She treded past stop signs and faded light posts, always a-flickering every few minutes, slowly she opened the gate to Hear-A-Bye Grave Yard that suited more of a name associated with rats than fallen people coming back to murmer sweet intimacies into their long lost lover's ears.
