The Collection of Short Stories

3- Angela

Little Angela watched on in longing. Her hands clasped in front of her as she swayed from side to side. If you look in her deep, dead eyes all you would see was dispare. The little girl could be seen around this family often. You can tell she just wants a home. It's hard when she's so young. When all she's ever known is pain and the scars on her wrists remind her of her current state.

When observing her you could sometimes see her weeping phantom tears, curled up in the corner. Tears failing to make stains on the expensive cotton beneath her.

"I- i just- just-" she took a moment to sob. "Want to- to go ho-home..."

This little girl continued visiting this place, at the same time, everyday. For years. Always remembering where she doesn't belong. Always forgetting little by little where she came from, and why she had scars. Why these people never acknowledged her..

One evening the Butler walked up behind the young Angela. Sorrow and sympathy warmed his cold gaze.

"Young girl.. You must move on now.. I'm going too. Come with me"

"I'm not dead."

"You are.. Those cuts on your wrist.. I'm not going to explain. I just know what happened.. Please..this place isn't for you.."

"O- ok.."

With the help of the butler, who's wrinkles showed his age. And a smile that egged the girl to move on.

"50 years later.. I'm so glad i don't have to hear you weep anymore.." Looking around, the women had aged, a few have stopped coming, and small feet pitter around the tables. Hooting and hollering.

He led her into the other side. Through a bright crevice, and out of the tortured place she had called for home from, for years.

"Welcome home Little Angela."