Deadly Curves
There were tears. Enough to drown in. Something many wished to do. Something she craved to do. But her eyes dried in shock long before there was a puddle deep enough to pull her struggling, pained emotions down in.
Down, down, up, up, up! Feelings stabbed so much nothing was left, sanity stretched so far that it ripped in half, unable to be sewn back together. Though they tried. Oh, they tried.
Blood runs down these walls. These long, white, solid walls. Covered in the crimson of innocent guilt. Blood dries under their nails. That's what all the makeup specialists are for. To pick the blood from under your nails and paint it another color. To piece you back together once you fell apart—or at least let it appear to the public that way.
She walks down these halls, her hair oily and unkempt, falling in rats and tangles down her back. What was once blonde is now mousy brown and dirty. Her nails are long and jagged, each one a different length from the others. They run down the walls, leaving scratches in the glass behind.
The girl doesn't know this. She does not know she appears as a homeless nobody. People whisper as she passes if they are new. If the people have been here before, they know she walks these halls regularly.
She doesn't know that no one recognizes her. If only they would pull back her hair, wash and style it, then do makeup and place her in an elegant dress . . . then they would see her. They would recognize her from the televisions mounted across the country. But no one does this. Many are scared to help her, to reach out. The others know that even if they cleaned her up and made her presentable, it wouldn't matter. She is being held far from the spotlight.
For if the people knew what broke her . . .