The Girl

The girl gave a strange impression of herself. An impression that, although now a simpleton, she had not always been this way. Her black muscle shirt hung loosly off well shaped breasts. Breasts that should have been sensual; but on this girl they were simply out of place. Her gangly face, her arms and legs both skinned and scabbed gave the impression of old age, although something about her said she was not yet twenty five years old. Twenty four perhaps - twenty four long painful years of abuse, apathy and bad decisions. She carried herself with a grace found only in old dogs looking for a place to light on a porch, each movement slow, well placed and full of aches.

The girl gave the impression that if you asked her if she were on drugs, she would slowly gather thoughts and confusedly say that she used to be, but not anymore. There was nothing of her left to save. Her body, her mind, her whole self had already been destroyed. She was now a fleshly robot simply going through the motions of life until she met the grave. Did she think about death? Probably not. Her mind was filled to capacity with nothing more than the burrito she plans to have for supper - nothing more.