She didn't eat, she didn't sleep. She refused her family's affections, preferring to be alone. She didn't talk much. Some thought she couldn't but in reality she preferred not to waste words. She didn't feel the need to fill the spaces of air with mindless chatter, a mere polite nothing. Insincere. Wasted and forgotten sooner rather than later. No one really knew her at all. Not truly. They each had their own misconceptions about her, each imagined her their own way. She wasn't the person they thought she was. They would never truly know who that person was. She was buried, encased in sadness, drowning. Turned away from the world and its people. She sat alone in her room and read books on poetry and birds, listening to obscure music no one had ever heard of as she went. Her eyes seemed to leak a certain sadness, sorrow that had been there for longer than anyone could ever remember. Her eyes were hazel brown, normal eyes with nothing special about them. But when one looked into those hazel eyes it was as if she could be seen much more clearly, even if just for a second. Just for a second she let you into a world that was entirely her own. Her eyes were dull and lifeless, painted black. Changing her face entirely, drawing you in then locking you out. Her clothes trailed off her and dragged on the floor. She was bones, fragile bones, easily bruised and broken. She was cracked and broken, lifeless and tired, dragged down into a deep pit of despair. The creatures inside her mind attacked her every single day, killing her from the inside out. She was chaos and calm. She was death in its simplest form. She was depressed and left to die. Distraught and overwhelmed. Helpless. A shell. A ghost with a beating heart. A heart that was too tired and too afraid to beat much longer.