Lost Star. [Revising]

A Girl Who Paints

Everyone sees pieces of broken glass as something dangerous, something that should be thrown away. Kayana is one special snowflake. She sees sharp object as something triggering, like a church bell that awakens the demons inside her. And there she is, sitting at the end of her bed, her hands trembling, sending a quick shiver to her spine. Inside her palm is a scattered, disfigured glass she hadn't remove since she broke it on her way throwing it away in the lake shore. The glass is something with memories sewn permanently on the back of her mind. It was given from her past lover, Diemas. He used to see it as a metaphor, and he used to refill it with fresh water every day, representing his love for Kayana, which was brand new everyday, until he is sent to the location of riot for military purposes, which resulted in his death, and his body is nowhere to be found. It has been two years since he was gone, but Kayana still hasn't fully let him go. She spent days without sleep and weeks without proper eating.

An now there she is, attempting to paint, with her wrist as a canvas and a piece of glass as a brush. She felt her hands trembling in her first trial to paint, since three days winning in a war against herself. And that's the farthest she has ever been. She crumbled her walls down, she let her demons win. She surrendered. And with the image of her happiest moments in her life spent with her past lover, she paints more, and more.

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Ding dong!

Sixth attempt to ring the house bell,

Ding Dong!

Seventh,

There must be something wrong.

Yuma managed to jump over Kayana's house fence. He rushed into the door, knocked a thousand times. He saw her making her way back home, and people said she rarely goes out. He surely knew she is inside. And something is wrong. He came here to give Kayana a substitute glass she had broken while she crashed into him yesterday, and there is still no answer. He decided to go back home, with a question in his mind.

And Kayana lays still in the floor, with a pole of blood drenching her rug, spilling like fountain from her slit wrist.

She is barely breathing, and her heart is barely beating.