A/N: I'm going through this random depressing phase, apparently. Enjoy!
When her mother was still alive, she would tell her stories.
Stories of kindness and friendship, stories of bravery and loyalty.
Her mother told her that stories were to make people happy, to make them see happiness.
Now, she thinks her mother was wrong.
Now it is her turn to tell stories. But she does not tell stories of kindness and friendship, and she does not tell stories of bravery and loyalty.
She tells stories of the terrible things she has seen, she tells stories of cruelty and enmity, of cowardice and fidelity. She tells the truth.
They fear her for it.
The children are scared. They are crying. They are running away.
Yet, one stays. One that looks at her with pity, and understanding, and compassion-
Now, she cannot see that look of pity, understanding, and compassion. Police have come, have thrown a bag over her head, have shackled her wrists, and pointed a gun at her back.
They do not want anyone to tell the truth. To them, the truth is pain. To them the truth is shame. To them, the truth is ugly.
She hears a gunshot, and knows that the child, who understands her, understands the truth, understands life, is dead.
They killed the child. They have killed compassion. They have killed the truth.
But it lives on in her old bones, will live on, until they get sick of her, too. Until people start taking her seriously. Because her stories are so detailed, that there must be an ounce of truth in them.
They are right.
Life is wrong.
Truth is neither.