"Oh, my God!" a woman screamed, petrified.
"What is wrong with her?" a man whispered to his wife.
Chains of looks hailed me as I arrived in Quaint Street. Walking down the street in the middle of a sunny day, by the sea, feeling the breeze as the air tousles my hair. Endless stares—greeted me.
Kids, showed me no mercy by throwing pebbles at me—dodged.
"Freak!", "Weirdo!", "Alien!"
Strangers screeching under their breaths aiming to insult me but careful not to let me hear it.
I took out a pen and a small notebook from my bag and jotted down all the stars the has fallen.
I arrived at the baker's house, where I get my weekly pastries. Indeed, this is my favourite, for they provide me with everything I need.
"One bluberry pancake to Emma!" Robert yelled from the counter.
We exchanged gratitudes and I proceeded outside. As I was walking, the setting shifted, its now dark, —whoa.
The street is peaceful now, no more screams and thrown pebbles. There's a problem though, I can't seem to walk easily with all the bodies and blood marks along the pavements.
8:00 pm | 070719
ophelia nightingale - fem, 2019
