Wayward

Tragic

She has more holes in her memory than in the socks she wears, a tragic outcome of her inability to ask. Just fast forwarded blurs of jumping over compounds in streets coated in dust and making concoctions of various leaves- tugging at a butterfly's wings simply because it matched her dress. The girl stumbled forward, cursing lightly her clumsiness and stopping. She'd quite forgotten when she started doing that, the repeated cycle of cursing, frantically looking around for eyes followed by briskly walking away. Smiling to remind herself that no, of course no one was looking.