In a suburban neighborhood where the surroundings screamed monotony, where the sun continued to bleach already stark white houses, where the birds chirped their cacophonous mess and where the citizens that resided in the man-made living spaces enjoyed well off and generally peaceful lives.
In a suburban neighborhood where the surroundings were in perfect place, where the sun was in perfect position, where the houses were as white as they always were and always would be, where the birds were harmonized as usual, where the citizens lived happily where the man-made structures let them.
And where one, just one, was out of place.
She was a strange one. Eyes were her blood, skin was the houses, cloth adorned was her blood all over again and her hair, like her skin, was the houses. White, red, white once more and red again.
Speaking over her skin, it showed through slits, through gaps once knit. Red, bodily fluid stained the maimed as she walked, her target inaccurately aimed on a door, for sure, for the good, loving sake of the poor, she hoped her target lived beyond that door. To settle a score she tried to settle before and before and was willing to try once more, she prayed aloud through a broken breath that her target was indeed in that dwelling, behind that door.
And once again, to settle the score she tried to settle before and before by going, as you might have guessed, before and before. The first time, and then some, and once more.
Teetering and tottering like an inebriated whore, she stumbled, tripped, rose and fell back on the grass floor. The grass floor leading to the desired door, holding the desired target which she hoped to terminate to settle the score. Well, more terminate what she thought would settle a score.
But enough about the score and more about her reaching the door, or so she tried, the woman stumbling and mumbling in a fashion similar to that of the frowned upon trade of the whore.
Passing by the mailbox, the tire swing and a contraption of pain for children, and as their tormentee for many years would it psychologically reign. She reached the door, every nerve cell pulling their own personal alarms and every muscle throbbing in pain. The young woman whose form was near maimed had finally found her place and stood afront a white door in white frame, a bloody print now staining the door bell she harshly pressed her palm against hoping her target came and through the jester littered house it rang, rang and rang it's sound: pang, the ring of the strange as strange as the girl who commanded with her sange sullied hand, and as commanded it rang, the sound serving as a young boy's bane, the boy, her target but before he could answer the door, her resistance, it waned, she gave in to the pain. Half sword, many it had slain, fallen to the floor as if metal squares would rain, and for such a surprise, this young boy did in no way fain, her body collapsed, collided and crashed upon the ground.
On the warm, dewy grass.
On the cold, granite grain.