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Bridger had given up. She didn't try to hold back the tears that left pale streaks across her dirty face. It had been two, maybe three weeks since she had watched her last family member buried, and several days since she had stopped eating the plants around her to stay alive. What was the point in breathing? Her sweet, innocent sister was dead and gone, buried in a grave marked by a tiny stone post. As far as the world was concerned, Bridget didn't exist.
It was asinine to say she didn't exist. The fifteen-year-old girl slowly starving to death on her sister's grave was hard to ignore, but the people that walked past her did a very good job of it. Perhaps, because of her tangled, dirty black hair, her dull green eyes, and her ragged clothes she looked like an odd sacrifice. Or maybe people were too afraid to see realize what could have easily happened to them. No one ever heard the screams that her nightmares milked from her lips.
She hoped and prayed that this was her last sleep. The last time the nightmares would haunt her. Her eyes would close, her breath slow, and her soul leave the world. Bridget was sure. Nothing was worth what she went through. The hunger pangs, the scratch in her dry throat, but not having the will or strength to find food or drink, and the hope she would be found but the doubt that clawed at her mind. The blinding loneliness nearly drove her mad. Nothing was worth it, except for the promise of peace when she shattered heart stopped and her damaged soul left to heal.
Bridget felt herself slipping into slumber. Terror tried to wake her, but hope allowed her eyelids to close. She curled into the fetal position, knees under her chin and her arms wrapped around her legs. As she slept, a fine mist of rain began to fall.