She loved the pity. She lusted for it, seduced it, called it. She cried to everyone, baring her tears as a sign of worthiness, meaning.

    Special.

    That was all she wanted to be. Someone to think about, someone to know. Someone to love.

    “He’s… dead,” she cried, “listen to me,” she mind screamed. Begging for someone to notice. Begging for someone to help.

    She brought upon herself fake compassion. She poured her heart into people that had shown her their fake emotion. She trusted them. She told them everything. She wedged herself into their minds.

Until they were able to pry her out. They took their knives and broke her. They broke her so that she could never be whole, never be large enough to fill a gap in someone else.

Now she stands alone. No one really cares, she thinks. No one really understands. As she looks down at her frail, tired hands, all she sees is despair. There is no beauty, no delicate lines drawn on her person. Her palms not a charming color, but a crimson red. A red so deep one could get lost in it.

As she looks past her repulsive hands, she sees a body. And although there is one person on the floor, she can see two. One body covered in red, the other broken and false. One his and one hers.

“Its their fault”, she thinks, “They would not listen.”