alisa

She was a little tired, a little cold, and a little slow, like a clock left in a house where no one lives anymore. She was running down.

Reason, reason, reason-- it burned in her head, a sad brass refrain that she couldn't shake. What reason did she have for any of her actions? For wanting to go, for wanting to be alone, for wanting to leave all the people who cared for her most? What reason did she have for caring most for the people who cared for her least? What reason did she have for the broken moments in her words, the faultlines where there was nothing to do but swear or break rules? For the rock of bitterness or the suddenness with which she fell in and out of love?

She was a little late, a little dusty, a little ragged, and in her secret heart, she suspected that nothing was right with her. Dark eyes, maybe friendly, maybe just tired of you. Dark hair, heavy heavy blue-black; she looked up at oceans of sky and sometimes she thought that was her best friend.

All the wrongs she had done burned in her head: the people she'd hurt, the things she'd stolen, the lies she'd told. In her secret heart, she wondered if she was the least bit okay.