Her father tried to protect her ever since she was born. Treating her like a porcelain doll sitting on a shelf, one that you're not allowed to touch. (Honey, Shilo isn't a play doll, she's a looking doll.) Dressed in her lace and her silks, her father maintained her shelf well, polishing the surface clear of dust, ridding the corners of cobwebs, smoothing her hair and dresses with delicate hands so she stayed in perfect condition while she watched the seasons pass with glass eyes that scream with hunger, though her painted lips never make a sound.
She watches the graceful songbirds from her shelf, listens to their gleeful songs and yearns for freedom. She watches them fly, and is convinced she can too, though she is weighed down by heavy velvets and responsibility. (But Mama Shilo wants to play too!) The songbirds urge her to throw doubt and restriction to the wind, to spread her arms and pretend their wings, and she follows them blindly, she throws herself off the edge, and is flying to high to feel the pain.
How many times did she throw herself off the shelf? Determined she was strong enough to handle the world's rough hands on her ivory skin? (Look Mama, Shilo's flying!)And how many times did she shatter against the cement wall of reality, fragile glass skin broken seemingly beyond repair, only to be picked up, piece by piece, by gentle, disapproving hands that guarded her jealously from the rest of the world?
Now the world has shattered not only her, but the hands she once thought so strong, and she sits and wonders who will pick her up now that she's tipped the shelf over and broke it into tiny pieces. (I'm sorry, I didn't mean too!) She sits on the edges of the living on the dead and waits.
There are other broken toys here, bright playing toys who take each other apart and trade in their old parts for new ones. She watches them, bitter with envy; those parts won't fit a looking doll. (Honey what did I tell you? See what you did to poor Shilo? I don't know if I can glue her this time…) They watch her curiously from the corner of their eyes, but they dare not approach the fragile broken thing that once had been guarded so fiercely.
Suddenly there are strong hands putting her back together again, but they're not the same. They're not graceful and gentle, they're clumsy and careless, and they radiate irritation and fiery curses in place of soft disapproval and love. (This is the last time I'm going to fix her. Next time you have to do it yourself.) He cuts himself on the sharp edges of her bitterness and his blood adds to the stains that mar her virgin skin.
He is a enigma, a shadow, a phantom of the world that watches people break and die every day, and helps them to their destruction, a guide down the path of hell. They watch and wonder why he's helping her, what makes Shilo Wallace so special? But they won't say a word to him. Demons don't challenge the devil, even when he's harboring an angel under his wing.
This sucks. I know it. I'm just trying to work on writing short pieces. My teachers get pissed at me when they want a one page story and I turn in a three page one.