A story of three precious little girls.
All of the children of the world undergo the hardships of life: sacrifice, pain, abuse. These trials of life are certainly unfair and undeserved, especially to a child. But they still happen. It is only hoped that these children of the world can get another chance.
A bright eyed, bubbly girl of five was walking to school. Her blonde curls bounced playfully off of her head. Her blue lunchbox tapped at her side to the percussion of the morning. Leaves danced around her as fall settled in. It was a beautiful, yet ordinary day. The girl wondered fondly of the new stories she would hear, or of the new art they would explore today. Each day brought new and wonderful things to her.
It was a simple life, but it was full of future potential.
As she approached the edge of the suburb, her school in view, the girl took notice of another boy her age. He had his backpack in tow, and a notebook in his hand. She recognized him as another student of her school, but they had never talked before. There was no ill will behind it; they simply never had a chance to interact before. The girl mused over the thought of speaking to him. Perhaps they could be friends.
Before she had the chance to implement her idea, a brisk wind blew by. With her spare hand, the girl clutched her jacket together at the front, surprised by the chill. The boy, also taken by surprise, had his papers stolen by the wind. They scattered wildly, laying at rest in the street. Without thought, the boy dashed into the street, trying to secure his lost notes. Unbeknownst to him, a car rapidly drew near.
The girl, not thinking as well, ran into the street. She released her blue lunch box, it struck the earth with its final beat. Her arms outstretched, she pushed the boy.
It was a simple life, and it was full of future potential.
The boy, confused, wandered over towards the body of the lifeless girl, wondering why she pushed him. The driver frantically dialed his phone, his face pained with remorse. The boy looked down upon the girl, who had slight tears in her eyes, her body limp against the asphalt. With her little strength left, she looked at the boy. A soft and gentle smile spread on her face. It would all be okay, it told him. Her eyes shut slowly, the smile staying on her face as her life left.
It was a beautiful life, its potential not yet lost.
A young girl sat in her hospital bed, a large book sitting in her small hands. She looked at it intently, and while her face was blank, inwardly she was smiling. She loved to read and absorb the knowledge contained within the pages. She longed to be able to attend school, to learn with other children her age, to have a wonderful life outside the hospital walls.
She could not have that wonderful life.
She was contained in her healing prison, constantly being tested and treated. Her illness and cure left her weak, and she easily bruised at the lightest of touches. Her head, once adorned by lovely and long ginger hair, decorated in silky red ribbons, was now merely pale skin; her ribbons were only useful as bookmarks. But despite her losses, her books still gave her comfort.
Every few days, a nurse would stop by with new books in their arms, with novel ideas inside waiting to be learned. The girl always looked forward to the arrival of these bound bundles of knowledge, blossoming at their arrival. These books were her friends, her companions, always willing to tell new stories to her, and understanding if she had to stop to rest for a while. It made her condition more bearable, her days less lonely.
Her disease, while terrible in itself, seemed to be stagnating. The treatments were working, and with luck, she would soon be able to, literature in hand, return to the life she dreamed of.
She could never have that wonderful life.
The infection spread through her body, taking its toll on its entirety. She bruised and bled, internally and externally. Her pale, thin frame shook, sweating profusely and crying in pain. This wasn't supposed to happen, they said. Something was wrong. Doctors scrambled to help her, her body dying by the second. Her illness had taken its toll. The girl with once ginger hair looked wearily at her books, her ribbons hanging out of them delicately. Her friends did not leave her side.
She would have her wonderful life.
A little girl with curly black hair sat alone in her room, enveloped in darkness. Her eyes were solemn and unmoving, staring down at her arm. A large, ugly splotch, made its home on her skin in the shape of a human hand. The girl's own hand lay down upon it, willing it to disappear. It would not. Defeated, she quietly placed her head on her pillow.
She hoped morning would soon come.
The little girl stirred in her still dark room. She awoke, and sadly looked at her arm once more. The imprint of hatred still lingered, refusing to be wished away. She exhaled deeply and sadly, her eyes drifting to the floor. She picked up her previously worn dress under other equally wrinkled clothing. Tentatively, she opened the door, hoping the woman wouldn't be there.
She slowly walked to her school, her small handmade lunch weakly held in her hand. Her gaze stayed towards the ground, unwilling to look ahead. Other children ran past, smiles affixed to their faces, laughing and yelling. She finally looked up towards the school building with faint relief. At her desk, she faintly wrote the letters of the alphabet, their curves and lines as somber as her, but still clinging to life. She looked at the clock on occasion, wondering if time could stop, and hoped the bell would never make her leave.
The final bell rang. She reluctantly left her desk, dreading the house she had to return to. She again walked at an unhurried pace, dragging out the task as long as she could. She eventually reached the object of her dread, hoping the woman wouldn't be there.
Glass shattered upon the wall. A strong smelling liquid stained the curling wallpaper. The woman held the girls arm tightly. Slurred and sullied speech erupted from the woman's mouth, her words stabbing at the girl. The girl struggled, a second mark forming on her arm. The woman, seizing another bottle, swung down upon the girl. And swung down.
Her morning would not come.
The paramedics hurried in, alerted by the neighboring households. The girl lay still, her curly hair covered in glass and matted with blood. One paramedic held her hand, willing her to hold on. They took her from the house, away from the glass and away from the darkness. The girl shed a tear, finally happy and free.
The morning sun shined.
There once were three little girls. Each one was forced to live through the pain that life can bring, and they were lost far too soon. These girls were not forgotten.
In the laboratory of a lone professor, something wondrous occurred. In an instant and as an accident, three girls were born. They smiled merrily at their father, who also returned his joy with a warm embrace. These girls, Bubbles, Blossom, and Buttercup, did not remember the lives they once had, but they still knew.
They had their full potential in a wonderful life that shined so bright.
They were finally home.