The Girl curled up underneath the covers, hiding. The darkness enveloped the house, an inky illusion creating a seeming solidness. And she hid, but she hid not from the darkness of the house, a darkness that could be dispelled with a simple flick of a switch or strike of a match. No, the darkness she sought asylum from could not be hidden from, especially not in the flimsy shell of a blanket she sat huddled in. The darkness she hid from could not be avoided dispelled with any kind of light, for the darkness from which she attempted to hide lay within her own heart. The Girl knew all this and yet she still clung to her frail cloth sanctuary with a grim determination, contemplating a better, more permanent solution.
She held the simple shard of razor sharp glass, a shard she had violently stolen from the bathroom mirror. The ruins of biting reflection dug into her feet but the she didn't care anymore, she had her prize and was more than willing to use it.
Seven years bad luck. She smiled at the thought, the irony didn't escape her; she wouldn't have the seven years of ill-fated ness the superstition promised. The Girl stepped into the cold steel bathtub and lay back, goose bumps prickling her until she adjusted to the iciness against her shoulders. She drew up her cruelly won trophy and, in the same motion, pressed it down upon her inner wrist and diagonally across. She watched the blood well up and poor out of the wound with a morbid fascination, loosing herself in the spurt that gushed in time with her slowing heartbeat. She let her head fall back, her eyes creeping shut as her essence slid down the drain. The girl grew light headed and slipped into her memories, the dream lord's last cruel joke.
"I love you, but you already know that, don't you."
The Girl closed her eyes and willed her passion to imitate the stone wall she reclined against- smooth, cool and indifferent. Her Passion rallied against her and ran its course in wet stream from her eyes to fall from her chin.
Claire looked away, a blush staining her cheeks, one rooted in shame the girl knew, and nodded her head gently in silent answer.
"You know Jesus cries for your sins," Claire said with the lively conviction only a true zealot could have.
That conviction stung the girl like a slap across the face, stealing the breath from her lungs and causing a fresh bout of tears to cascade down her face. She absent-mindedly fingered the scars that danced up her left arm - it was almost a subconscious behavior for her now. Doesn't she know I did them for her, she wondered faintly, doesn't she know what I've given her? …No, she doesn't understand that I don't cry, I only bleed. Yet hear I am, giving her my precious tears.
The Girl gave a bitter smile and replied,
"Tears do nothing."
The Girl slipped back into consciousness to see a beautifully pale woman standing over her, offering her a hand. The girl took the hand and smiled, the woman's dark makeup reminiscent of her own. The woman raised her up, helping her to her feet and out of the cold tub. The Girl glanced at her own pale, bloodstained corpse which lay in the steel bathtub, then back at the unearthly woman who stood with her. The girl smiled and walked away from the darkness, her hand in death's comforting grasp.