Ritz' head hurt when she thought too much. The unfairness of life, and her hypocrisy.
The girl with striking white hair caught her mother's eyes in the mirror. Her green orbs smoldered, and she sat with her back straight as a board. "Yes, mom, I'm sure I want my hair dyed." She pretended to not see the glassy look in those eyes and that her mother's slight arm shook just a little when she brought the bottle up.
The red crawled down her head. In the mirror it looked like dripping blood. She pretended her own eyes weren't glassy, too.
In the park a mother and her son walked. "You were quite quiet last night, Marche. Normally we talk." The mother spoke softly to her eldest.
The blonde boy had a moment of rigidity in between steps. His body shrunk, unnoticeably, against the unasked question, and he caught a gasped breath quickly. The fraction of a second that Marche paused was his endless struggle, though his answer never wavered.
He fingered his blue jacket's sleeve and said, "Sorry, I was distracted."
His brothers' wheelchair squeaked along, and soon its occupant returned to talking with their mother. The boy rotted, alone.
"It's not my fault. He shouldn't have been a such crybaby!"
"Go away Mewt. I don't want them to pick on me either, bug off."
"Your mom must really hate you, to leave you with your deadbeat dad. You're so pathetic, Mewt!"
Mewt's green hoodie wasn't big enough to huddle in like he wanted. Blankets couldn't shelter from the bad memories.
Sometimes the boy hated his father's apologetic face. There was no salvation for Mewt in his own mirrored future, just a perpetual gloom.
Mewt curled as small as he could on his bed, clutching his rabbit and silently sobbing.
