sjsprWriting

Mute sounds cover her face. They mesh around her elegant features, rubbing away the pink in her cheeks, the color in her eyes. Solid, steady steps are what usually carry her home every morning, and on the ones they don't she lies still on the staining grass, letting the fresh smell of life sink into her skin. Her lips are like convex roses. Blushing, blooming... as if to cover the translucence of a ghost-like skin that hangs on her body, limp, unwaiting, "sans espoir". Around the corner of her house lies a cat. It's been dead for days and no one has bothered to move it. Not even the remaining living creatures have enough incentive to continue the cycle of life. For the past days she's been drawing the cat but mostly staring at it from a distance, being vastly intrigued by the abscence of death in the dull, open eyes of silence. On thursdays she finds a liking to life and cooks pasta with a homemade sauce. She likes the smell of garlic and tomatoes and she also likes to pretend that she can do things on her own. She adds basil and sprinkles cheese on top of her creation when she's done. Her mother comes in and nonchalantly tells her to clean up the mess. She does, but afterwards she goes to her room and does not come out. Pressed against her pillow she can swear that songbirds are singing nearby but she slowly gives up on the idea and admires her mind for imagining such a happy thought. When the light in her room grows heavy, so do her eyes and she finds peace in nothingess.