She looked empty. Her eyes were slits of black, hardly open even in the inoffensive parlor lighting. She spoke not a word, only stood and stared not at us, but somewhere past us, through the wall, outside, wherever her mind could rest without breaking down. My companion embraced her, and suddenly she was backhanded with cold reality; I watched her face melt from indifference to agony, and she whimpered, wailed, "Why? I just want him back. I want him to come home," and her tears ran black with the eyeliner and mascara of her dark palette, the one with which she paints when she cannot bear to face the world bright and naked.
 Made27 · Sun Jan 30, 2005 @ 05:01pm · 0 Comments |
