The first time I met Amelia I was ten years old. She was sitting on top of an old warehouse, her slim legs dangling over the edge. Her hair waved freely in the wind, shimmering almost golden in the bright summer sun, and her blue eyes sparkled like rainbows when she saw me. Her slender hands patted the roof beside her, beckoning me to join her. I climbed up the ladder eagerly, my short chubby legs stretching to reach each step and my oversized glasses sliding off my nose, before finally reaching her. Up close, her beauty was more than evident, her smile shining brighter than the sun could ever dream.
"What's your name?" Her voice was soft and soothing, her accent barely noticeable. I had answered shyly. I didn't know what I was afraid of, but something about the older girl intimidated me. She seemed far too wise for her age. She introduced herself, Amelia Jackson, extending her hand with a soft giggle. Had you asked me at that moment what she was, I would have said an angel.
YOU ARE READING
Why She Jumped
Short StoryBy the time I woke up on January 1st, 2013, Amelia Jackson was dead. Trigger Warning: Suicide Abuse Self Harm (Disclaimer; I do not own the cover image)
