It was a dead day, the air tasted stale despite the rain that was bucketing down from the thick grey clouds that painted the sky, the people of Dalhurst were just as depressing as the weather, they carried on their lives in an endless loop of work, eat sleep. The mid day breeze shook what was left of the trees that aligned with the road, emotionless figures walked up and down the paths there faces looking at the glowing screen in their cold hands. Stereotypical, thats what this town is, cliche, I'm sure you have an accurate representation of what this pathetic place looks like plastered to walls of your brain.
Dead...
The heel of her boot made a small splash as it punctured the puddle beneath her. A thousand years still kicking, I promise you Dalhurst has never seen anything quite like this. She stood an average height, clothing all black, sucking the life from a menthol cigarette. Bored of her previous lives, here stood in the blank setting, the breeze lifting single strands of hair, making her perfectly proportioned face visible. A hunger was growing within her flat stomach, her mouth, dry. Her patience, thin. The umbrella above her gave some sort of innocent feeling about her, but I can't stress to you enough that it was just to shelter herself of the harsh storm.
I will warn you now, if a person is perfect and if they believe they are perfect then they are nothing less than perfect...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
