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Every night she tried to sleep, woken after a mere few minutes by nightmares, nightmares of burning and pain. She would lay there, eyes wide staring into the bleak blackness of the night, her mind racing and absent simultaneously. How she yearned for it to stop, to feel some pleasure in life, some burning fire that did not scar her heart but instead enraptured it in a flaming hug of passion and love.
Her mind became a cascade of unknowing as she wondered "Why," simply "Why." Her tears were like a lava on her pale ghostly skin. She did not mean to cry, they came naturally now like flames that licked her flesh.
She sat up, half-heartedly wiping the tears from her face. She had not been able to go to sleep until she passed out, she was too worried, now she has woken up again, worried. She cannot sleep, it is torturing her. She is sick of the sickness it is causing her and no one seems to see how badly it's effecting her—they think she is just tired. She is exhausted mentally. Do you not see?
She is agony, her wondrous happiness turned her into agony itself. It is who she is now, a remnant of her own pain, devoured by an ongoing hope—seemingly pointless hope.
Wiping her face, she sighs. In a wonder she looks at her phone, she wants to pick it up and look, instead her agony throws it across the room. She curls up in a ball and hugs her knees tight to her chest. All she is, is a representation of what hope will do to a person and how agony will devour a soul.
She has to be strong, she wants to break, fall, collapse, weep, punch the floor, rip the flowers from their roots and tell the world it is not easy.
Yell her agony from the rooftops and scream her lungs out until her chest cracks open and tell you everything. If she could just put her emotions, her agony into a bag and give it to you. She would. Then she would walk away. If only.
She stares out the window at the night sky, the moon pleading her to be okay, the stars giving her hope. She just wants to get a hug off of those shining lights that keep her rooted to the ground.
She sees her phone on the floor across the room. She is desperate to message you, but she knows, if you cared... you would have messaged her. Agony does not play games. No matter how many times you tell her you want her, agony knows that if you did, you would have messaged her.
She is becoming cold. She cannot feel her toes.
She waits. It is colder.
Her pale skin is getting paler, her eyes emptier. Watching the stars blink at her and watch her back, she wonders what they are thinking.
Finally, you message her, realising you idiocy—why did you not say anything before. You think it will just be like any other time. She will message you back—at first just glad to hear from you, but then annoyed and upset. Nothing. You don't like it when its the other way around do you?
You call, why won't she pick up!
You should have tried harder.
Agony sits on her windowsill, watching the stars—forever.
Her cold body rest on the pale window, looking up at the stars still hoping, forever hoping. Now with her stars, her soul can hug the light.
You were too late.