Fly, Fly, Butterfly
- i want it painted black-
The tap is turned on with such force that she backs away from it, her eyes wide. The instructions are on the floor; she disregards them completely. She wants, and needs, to do this herself, without help or "instructions." She needs to actually do something, accomplish anything, by herself.
She studies the bottle in her hand seriously, her brow raised into an arch. The small green cap is pulled off and joins the litter on the floor, before she squeezes the bottle tight, forcing creamy white liquid out. She wipes the grime off the mirror with the palm of her hand, pursing her lips down at the blackness the now covers –taints- her pale skin.
She takes a deep breath, and begins to pull the gloves onto her hands, removing the numerous rings that lay on her fingers, decorating the pale skin. She smiles softly at her hair, tugging at the strands softly. Suddenly decisive, she pulls a pair of black-handled scissors out of the top drawer, and swallows the lump in her throat.
She needs to do this.
In two quick movements she snips three inch off the left side of her hair. She stifles a sob slowly, looking at the sad picture she makes. She quickly snips the rest of her hair off, letting it float softly down to join the rest of the litter on the grimy tiles. Blinded by tears, she rubs the lotion into her hair, turning the black strands into white. Cho Chang needs a new identity and dying her hair will help with that. The pain will go, hopefully, as will the memories of Cedric.
Black fades to brown under the flickering fluorescent lights.
A glass butterfly thumps softly against the window and shatters into tiny pieces, tears blinding her vision. She sobs softly, brown dye trickling down her neck.
Bye, bye, butterfly.
bye Ced