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Description
She fell back in step with serenity, and it felt very nice indeed. For months she had felt as if the fate of today rested very much so in tomorrow, but of course that was not true. It was too often that she cut apart everything and inspected it for “things” such as hidden meanings or signs of change. She knew she was a wreck of something far too pained for words, and she mostly tried to ignore that too.
If you were to ask her the simple question of why she was so compelled to control, she would most likely burst angrily into tears and shower you with a message of misunderstanding. A journal was unnecessary to her and her shrink never talked back. She had that nervous disorder where her hands danced together absently while the rest of her shapely body sat at rest. There were curious eyes that sat in those sockets, and they flinched at any unexpected movement around her. It was her pale breasts she never cared for. They were always getting in the way, it seemed. When she was in a panicked hurry and cut corners too sharply, her nipples took quite a beating. Sometimes one would bruise or the other would swell slightly and when her boyfriend seemed In That Mood, she would grit her teeth and listen patiently to his toneless moaning.
Love songs were stupid and morbid murmurings were firmly used up in her teenage years, so she never listen to music. Sometimes when she broke down, she would wordlessly hum a lullaby her ma had taught her once upon a time. It was very difficult to satisfy such a needy and relentlessly pitiful woman, but she did have her stronger moments. Like the time when her father have taken a fall from that fourth story balcony and died after four long hours of howling for assistance. She had not heard him and for a great deal of time blamed herself as most children would. Somehow she concluded that it was his own dumb fucking fault, and then more guilt pursued due to her tone. It was always that attitude her father never favored for in her. She sounded too fucked up for his liking. He was too drunk for hers, so it all evened out quite nicely.
She was an artist, though. Like many before her, she was unknown. Fame never crossed her mind, which was good considering her art never made enough sense to be taken in properly. Sometimes she would paint pot leaves on her legs or syringes on her elbows. Once she had smoked weed, but she thought it tasted too much like cleaning products for her fondness. Once in awhile she would buy a bottle of Lysol and laugh insanely as it sat on her kitchen table, which I never understood. She has one of those contagious laughs, and for awhile I suspected she had slipped something in my coffee. But, knowing her, she would have taken a few drinks from the same concoction and passed out due to her bodies lack of narcotics. She was a strange one, you could say, but I always loved the challenge of figuring her out.

Description
She fell back in step with serenity, and it felt very nice indeed. For months she had felt as if the fate of today rested very much so in tomorrow, but of course that was not true. It was too often that she cut apart everything and inspected it for “things” such as hidden meanings or signs of change. She knew she was a wreck of something far too pained for words, and she mostly tried to ignore that too.
If you were to ask her the simple question of why she was so compelled to control, she would most likely burst angrily into tears and shower you with a message of misunderstanding. A journal was unnecessary to her and her shrink never talked back. She had that nervous disorder where her hands danced together absently while the rest of her shapely body sat at rest. There were curious eyes that sat in those sockets, and they flinched at any unexpected movement around her. It was her pale breasts she never cared for. They were always getting in the way, it seemed. When she was in a panicked hurry and cut corners too sharply, her nipples took quite a beating. Sometimes one would bruise or the other would swell slightly and when her boyfriend seemed In That Mood, she would grit her teeth and listen patiently to his toneless moaning.
Love songs were stupid and morbid murmurings were firmly used up in her teenage years, so she never listen to music. Sometimes when she broke down, she would wordlessly hum a lullaby her ma had taught her once upon a time. It was very difficult to satisfy such a needy and relentlessly pitiful woman, but she did have her stronger moments. Like the time when her father have taken a fall from that fourth story balcony and died after four long hours of howling for assistance. She had not heard him and for a great deal of time blamed herself as most children would. Somehow she concluded that it was his own dumb fucking fault, and then more guilt pursued due to her tone. It was always that attitude her father never favored for in her. She sounded too fucked up for his liking. He was too drunk for hers, so it all evened out quite nicely.
She was an artist, though. Like many before her, she was unknown. Fame never crossed her mind, which was good considering her art never made enough sense to be taken in properly. Sometimes she would paint pot leaves on her legs or syringes on her elbows. Once she had smoked weed, but she thought it tasted too much like cleaning products for her fondness. Once in awhile she would buy a bottle of Lysol and laugh insanely as it sat on her kitchen table, which I never understood. She has one of those contagious laughs, and for awhile I suspected she had slipped something in my coffee. But, knowing her, she would have taken a few drinks from the same concoction and passed out due to her bodies lack of narcotics. She was a strange one, you could say, but I always loved the challenge of figuring her out.