Walking on her own. She's always on her own now. It's not unusual. Ever since that night, not unusual. The dark, lifeless night reflecting her mode perfectly. She feels lifeless without the stars. The stars are covered by the dark pit she can't break through. How can she know that the stars are there? She can't see them, they're not there – she has nothing. It's just her, all on her own, her and the rubbish. As she walks, walks on and on and on (as always because what else has she got?) she wonders what the night would be like if the stars were there. The night would be brighter. Much brighter. There would be one, brighter than the rest, shining for her. But it's just her and they're not there. And she feels as if it's her fault. The only consolation she's ever going to get is from the dim street lights. They will never shine as bright as the stars, her stars. Never.
She sees a drunken man, walking out of a bar and passing out. She wonders about his story, as she walks. What was his story? Does he have a family? Did he have a life? She carries on wondering about everything and anything, life, the world, the drunk man. She thinks until her head hurts, until she can't think anymore. So she doesn't she lets her mind go blank, and carries on walking down the dark, endless road. She used to be better. Happy. She used to be a different person. Now, she's almost new. But not quite. Although it silently kills her, she can't let go. Not of the past, not of the stars, not of herself.
As her feet move (by themselves) she crosses the street to her 'home'. House. This isn't her home. It's dark, lifeless, some would say it fits her perfectly, but she knows better. He knows better. The living room is dark and lifeless. She switches on the T.V. nothing good on, typical. Typical of... everything. Of herself, she is nothing. She is mad, that's what the people say. And she'd agree, if she didn't know better. She does know better, and so does he.
Her house is painted black, against her father's wishes. But when has she ever listened to her father? She sits in her favourite chair, the only thing she salvaged. And she remembers how she used to be. Happy, different. She pushes away the memory, because it hurts. Happy hurts. Because they're not happy. He's not happy. So why should she be? Because he wants her to be? No.
He's six feet under, just like the rest of them. And it's her fault. She started the fire. At her party. Her home. Her friends. Him. She didn't mean to! It just happened! She didn't mean to start it!
She was the only survivor.
Her and the chair. The only distressed, crest-fallen, miserable griever. No one has felt how she has. She killed everything and everyone she cared about. She has nothing; she became nothing as the fire spread. The more it grew, the less she became. She sweats every time she thinks about it, because of the heat in her house, the fire, the rage. One shrink told her they were looking down on her. She now believes they are stars. He's the brightest. But he's not there. Not anymore.
She waits for the new 'councillor' to come. That's why she returned to her house. To wait. Always waiting. For the councillor. For him. For death. She sees the knife in the corner of her eye, in the kitchen and she wonders if she could do it. Cut so deep into her skin she doesn't feel the pain, she just see's the blood. The hot red blood dripping down her skin. She's pulled out of her thoughts as the councillor enters and they talk. She talks, but the girl doesn't listen, they're all the same.
Because they're created from her imagination. She made a fantasy in her head, because the truth was too horrible. She's in a mental hospital, to be 'helped'. But no one can help her... except one. But he's six feet under. She's mad. Mad. He's still dead. She still killed him. That doesn't change. But she does. So she walks again. Always walking. Under the stars. The light showing her blood, sweat and tears. A stranger to everyone. Everyone but him. To him she is the brightest star.