Margo (H.S.)

Prologue

She is beautiful, she truly is. I think the harsh realization of reality sunk into her and clouded her mind.

It clouded her judgement, not on anyone else. Just herself.

She hides behind the doors of her soul and screams for relief from the harsh reality. She should see her beauty as I do.

She should see her worth, but she doesn't.

Maybe I'm being hypocritical, maybe I'm speaking the unspoken truth.

She is a lit candle in a room of pure darkness and oblivion.

She won't ever notice me, no one will.

As I walk down the halls of this forsaken household the fresh scent of vanilla dances through my senses.

I wonder in the deep cave that is my mind, would she ever get to feel my touch? Would I ever feel her fingertips burning into my cold skin?

The answer is an inevitable 'no'

For I am dead

Who would want to feel the touch of a dead man?