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Puddle Girl Essay

She gazes out the window, self-consciously adjusting the straps of her shirt. She shivers as a chill creeps out from the weathered window pane and draws a limp cardigan from the overstuffed chair she has perched herself upon. The pounding of the rain slowly begins to abate and diverts into a soft, gentle roll of tears from the sky. She clasps the cardigan closer to her body, as she mentally counts off the number of ribs she can feel through the heavy, wool blend. Haplessly she utters the sigh of a woman far beyond her years and reaches to open the beckoning door. Her frail, ivory hand encloses on the scuffed brass door knob and she abruptly looks about her, as if she is waiting for someone to reprimand her. She braces herself against the wind’s knocking chill and steps out into the blighting, crisp, after-rain air. Though she is wearing the two layers she had previously dressed herself in that grey morning and the four other layers she had wrapped herself in throughout the day, she still shivers, the drizzle gently pinpricking her spine.

The soft, baby hairs rising on her arms, she raises her diminutive hand to touch the baby-fine smattering of gold silk upon her head, to find that it drifts off through her bony fingers to the earthen ground. She touches her head again and this time her gaze lands upon the aimless settlement of one golden strand. Whirling and twirling, it’s angelic decent is cushioned by the tender rain’s droppings that had accumulated into a softly swirling puddle. In an impulsive childish manner, she squats down alongside the water mass and peers at the blustery, silken strand. As it writhes and dances across the still body of water, it creates perfect, symmetrical ripples of movement and sooner than later, to the young girl’s objections, the hair is stifled by the peaceful puddle’s saturation. And just as her lips utter yet another far-matured sigh, a reflection subsequently appears and the girl, in a melancholy, self-induced habit stares at the image impressed upon the water’s glass.

There is a girl in the puddle and she stares back with a desolate stare. Where once sparkling blue eyes glistened is now replaced with the color of grey misery, the twinkle engulfed in the world’s shallow appetite. Her cheeks sunken with the sharp edge that only appears with years of self-destruction and facial expression contorted into the tightness of concentrated self-loathing. Convulsing, the young girl abruptly shatters the ebbing puddle girl’s image, sending her nose, eyes, and tight-lipped un-smile into all directions. Trembling fromĀ anger, fear, pain–a mixture of such pure and raw emotion that to describe it would be impossible–the young girl crumbles down onto the cold, unyielding cement. Cradling her head, allowing the swirling torrent of feelings to take over her being…once again the rains begin to fall and as each drop rolls down her once rosy cheeks, she sobs and thinks of days gone past.

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