Wild, tangled, uncombed hair.
Mascara and tears mixing on her cheeks.
Crazed fire in her wide eyes.
Pointing her finger at whatever or whoever she thinks made her this way.
She came to me one day, in the chilly October air, two years ago.
She was just sad back then, when she was no longer trusted, and needed someone to hold her through the storm.
When the worst of it had rolled through, she learned to blame others for her pain. Specifically J.
And I listen to her. I used to follow whatever she told me.
"She's plotting against us. She hates us." She would tell me.
I've learned that not everything that she says is true.
But that I can't lock her away because I am too empathetic and she always comes back.
Nowadays, I don't push her away when she comes to talk.
I just lead her to a couch, or my bed, and I have her lie down with her head on my lap. And as I start to comb my fingers through her hair, she tells me everything that's rattling around in her brain. But I refute every claim of hate or conspiracy against us.
"Now Connie," that's her name, "why would she do that? What reason does she have to hate us?" And slowly she calms down.
And when everything has been sorted out we hug and she goes away. Where, I don't know.
But I can't help but love her passionate eyes, and the way she just wants to protect me.
The mascara and tears don't affect the blue of her eyes, or her rosy cheeks.
And her wild, untamed hair is comparable to a lions mane.
