The truth is, nobody really knew Alison. She was just flesh. No soul. No happiness. Nothing.
Nothing was exactly what she was. She laughed, and yelled, and swore, but she never cried. Never loved. Never felt emotion. She just manipulated people, then left them on the side of the road.
To Emily, she was the greatest person in the world. There was nothing but her, nothing but her long blond hair and the smell of vanilla hand soap. Emily was blinded by the light, blinded like a moth. Eventually, the light was the thing that brought you to your doom. Just like Emily.
Maybe Alison did love Emily. Maybe Alison could have scooted the poison over to make room for Emily's pure soul. But I guess we'll never know. Now all Alison is is a piece of rotting flesh. A piece of paper. A story.
All she ever was was a story. Maybe that was her point, to be a story. Something people would remember her by. So she wasn't just Alison, she'd be Alison. The girl who ruled everyone with an iron fist. The girl who knew how to hurt everyone.
And yet people loved her. It must have been difficult to hold all the reins, difficult to be so manipulative. But it was her nature. She was born to hurt, born to cause pain.
Born to die.
She should've known that it would have caught up with her. Maybe she did. Maybe she was grasping desperately on the reins, on her control, before she lost grip and fell into the pits of her actions. Whatever happened that night will probably be a mystery. Her story will just wash away with everyone else that dies in the world. She'll just be another grave, another obit, another person that floats away into the swirl of ordinary.