Hope is for the brave.
Crystal is not brave enough.
Crystal is hopeless.
She wakes up in the morning crying and that is exactly how she goes back to sleep.
Her only escape is the Café near her school, a boy she just met and whatever else happens a...
Although I can say that I'm used to death (given that I came close to dying more than many times) I 'm still afraid of it. There are indeed days that I say 'Hell. How much I want to die'' but I don't really mean it.
The truth is that I want to live. I don't think it is worth it. Not even close. But I do want to accomplice some things, I do want to leave a "legacy''. And after all, I do want to learn the world so that I can "go" knowing what I have left behind. If not, then what's the point in all this? Why was I even born?
The wind forces the trees in an intense dance. The branches are wobbling from one place to the other, almost ready to uproot from their boles and fly. Some have done that already. They fled for a couple minutes, then the wind coerced them down and now they crawl through fallen crisp yellow leaves, making that satisfying crunching sound.
I flick my hair back in an effort to take it off my eyes. In a matter of seconds my hairs are back on their previous position, fighting across my face. I pull the rubber band I have around my wrist out and use it to tie them in a tight ponytail.
My skirt flows, and from above, it seems like the blue umbrella my brother used to move around, even when it wasn't raining. It was decorated with small yellow stars and my brother's friends always mocked him for that. "What are you, a child?" the 10 year olds had once said, as if they weren't children themselves. But my brother didn't care. Mother had bought it for him and he was proud of it. He wouldn't let anyone else to touch it, not even father. I remember this time; it was raining cats and dogs. I wanted to go search for a bracelet (father's gift) at the garden and, as always, I was too impatient . I couldn't find my pink umbrella and I saw my brother's next to the front door. Why not, I thought, I'll be back before he even notices. However, when I came back he was waiting in my bedroom. "You stole my mother, and now you steal my things". He had something in his grip, a little wooden train. He threw it at me before I even had the chance to say something. It hit me right on the head. I saw the satisfaction and the wrath in his eyes when the toy touched my skin. My arm crashed onto the pavement before the rest of my body. The rubber of my bracelet got cut and the beads spread on the floor. Such a beautiful piece of jewellery. I was crying for days, not for my wounded head, not for my broken arm, but for the bracelet, the first sign of the consequential madness. I kept the beads, their glossy surface reflected my brother's anger. I had never seen someone bear so much fury before.
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I feel something wet on my forehead and I reach to touch it with my fingers.
"Perfect" I whisper to my self.
Another trickle drops on my skin and it's then I realize it's already raining.
I close my eyes and stand still in the middle of the road. My ponytail starts unbending because of the weight of the water and my clothes stick on my body. However, I don't leave.
In winter, I hate it when it is rainy. Well, I don't always hate it when it's raining, but I certainly hate the aftermath. It's something about the dampness it leaves behind. It makes me feel numb and empty. It makes me feel like I am unable to feel, it makes me cold. It's as if the rain drops are my tears and after the storm I have nothing left inside me, I am dried up. And then, there's this cold that freezes my heart. But in summer? It's a miracle.
