The little girl.
The one that sat on a rusted swing, in an abandoned park.
The one that sat with her pigtails tied in red ribbon.
The one that sat with her blue eyes clouded.
The one that sat in a blue and white plaid dress.
The one who’s blonde hair fell over her shoulders.
The one who's black MaryJane's touched the dirt.
The little girl, who sat alone- for no one knew of her or the reason she sat- simply sat. And stared.
The little girl, you see, was all alone in this world.
This one of envy and of crime.
This one of unfair judges and Never Happily Ever Afters.
She had tried to save them, she really had.
And after the ...occurrence, she hoped and prayed with all her might- that one should be saved.
And in the end, she learned all her attempts had been made in vain- for not one soul had been saved- Not one.
And after the ...occurrence, she hurried home- not sure of what to do-
For though she may be young now, she was even younger then.
Though she hurried- hurried fast- she couldn't make it in time.
What happened, happened too soon. She couldn't make anything out of anything. It was so dark- so utterly black. And silent- and silent too. She had not the faintest clue of what to do, and so, sat. And wept. Wept until her eyes could cry no more.
She wept of the black and of the ...occurrence. Of those that were gone and of her tears. She wept. She wept for her pigtails tied in red ribbon. She wept for the dress- that was blue and white plaid, for the blonde hair that fell over her shoulders, for her black MaryJane's.
And as the tears began to cease, her sobs filled the moonless air, emotion now telling that the tears had been favored.
After she wept and lost of what an inexperienced mind she had, she woke to the nest of trees, where she had fallen to rest.
Only to remember of the ...occurrence and of the tears and of the sobs and of the loss. She stood, her chest now aching, and began again on the road- towards what she thought was home.
Again, she became confused, and so, stopped by a spring- she barely alive.
For though now she is young, she had once been even younger.
Looking into the murky water, she noticed a girl.
A girl with strands falling out of her pigtails, the red ribbon worn.
A girl in a dirt-caked dress.
A girl whose hair had twigs and leaves falling out of it.
A girl whose eyes seemed sunken, face muddied, dots of blood oozing.
The girl sat back after cupping some water, wanting to quench the thirst- though not daring to drink the liquid at hand.
She started her journey again, not knowing when she stopped.
YOU ARE READING
Constantine
TerrorA short story that originally was to be a poem- some have called ...dark. Though I, on the other hand, like to see it as more of a, mm, different outlook on things. Was written for an assignment, to be made after the style of Edgar Allan Poe. My ins...
