Louisa is like the queen. She's been here, this time, for ever.
She tells me, "I was the very first fucking girl here, back when they opened, for god's sake."
She is always writing in a black and white composition book; she never comes to group. Most of the girls wear yoga pants and T-shirts, sloppy things, but Louisa dresses up every day : black tights and shiny flats, glamourous thrift-store dresses from the forties, her hair always done up in some dramatic way or another. She has suitcases filled with scarves filmy nightgowns, creamy makeup, blood-red tubes of lipstick. Louisa is like a visitor who never plans to leave.
She tells me she signs in a band.
"But my nervousness," she says softly, "my problem , it gets in the way."
Louisa has burns in concentric circles on her belly. She has rootlike threads on the insides of her arms. Her legs are burned and carved in careful, clean patterns. Tattoos cover her back.
Louisa is running out of room.
YOU ARE READING
little miss "crazy"
Randomthis is a novel!! Charlotte Davis is in pieces. At seventeen, she's already lost more than most people do in a lifetime. But she's learnt how to forget. The broken glass washes away the sorrow until there is nothing but calm. You don't have to thin...
