Word gets around about
a girl who never speaks.
She sits in the diner for lunch
every tuesday, and just stares.
Kids make it into a novelty.
Trying to taunt her into speaking.
Into telling everyone why she lives
in that broken down store up the
dirt road, but she never tries to
explain. Instead she looks in your
eyes like she can see every bad
thing you've ever done, then takes
her coffee, and leaves. It's no wonder
that she isn't the most popular
in town. Eventually she'd stop coming to
the diner, and if anyone ever cared to
check on her, they'd climb through
the broken panes of a door that no
longer opened, and it wouldn't take long
to notice the ratty couch, the leaky sink,
or the empty and hanging open cupboards.
It would be easy to spot the holes in the
floor and ceiling, and the table filled
with ***** plates. These are all things that should
should jump out at them right away,
but instead they'd see the floor covered
with envelopes and paper.
And before they discovered her broken body
in the back room, they'd realize that every
piece of paper was a written letter, and every
envelope was over stuffed with them as well.
Letters filled with all the words she never
bothered to say, answering all the questions
that she'd ever been asked, and some, just
a select few, crying out for help.
In the back room her body rested, broken
at the neck and cold to the touch. Next to her
a final letter, about how she felt jealous of
those who never lived at all.
Done in an exercise for my creative writing class.