"Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic."
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in which Samantha Cross is a golden girl, as graceful as a flower with blonde locks that shine brighter than the sun and an eerie glow lurking behind her long lashes.
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Chapter song: "Beneath Your Beautiful" Labrinth, Emeli Sandé
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She sips a glass of homemade pink lemonade on her little yellow bed, the walls surrounding her are the palest yellow and the window shades are the whitest white, and everything is so monochromatic- but that's what Samantha Cross enjoyed, simplistic surroundings because it contradicts her mind. Her mind is full of thoughts, as is everyone else's, but hers are much more intricate. Some dark and gloomy while others are full of luminosity and love. She herself is complex. So her hand has a pen scrunched up inside, letting loose a thousand words that pour out those thoughts, in messy scribbles and curls of letters that are hard to make sense of. She prefers it this way, because if anyone were to get ahold of her small mustard colored notebook, they wouldn't really understand it. It's code, she tells herself, but really that's just an excuse for her poor handwriting.
Light slides in through the plain shades, and an abundance of tiny specks of dust dance in its presence. Glass Coca-Cola bottles line her window sill, each holding a flower. Some hold a daisy, while others just carry small yellow flowers she found in a field, just north of Sweetwater River. Samantha slides her hand through the light the bottles are contorting, and watches it as it bends and falls upon her pale skin, she is dancing in the forlorn sun beams. They lay across her face, and at night the moon light spray across her freckled cheeks, she is a child of light, a child of brightness forever more.
She kisses boys and they always say she tastes like summer sunshine and citrus, the most delightful taste to their lustful lips. Then they leave, not because she is not enough, more of because she is too much. She is layers upon layers, a mystery to be solved, most people become overwhelmed by her presence. She is the walking sun on Earth. She complains to her friends about how no one looks at her, but she does not see the curious eyes who dare to stare into the sun, only to turn away before she catches his desirous stares. The sun is powerful, the sun is a force not to be reckoned with.
But though her eyes are loud and her voice is quiet, the words flowing from the small pen to the lined paper are personal. They are chromatic, illuminated by her light and they will eternally glow.
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