That Damned Flame

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A long, long time ago, there used to be this girl.

Frail. Chipped. Melancholic.

She was a lot of the negative things in this world. Everywhere she went, her eyes would locate the evil surrounding her and her hands would reach out, grab that evil, and tightly glue her to it.

Years went by. And she remained unchanged.

She was like a moth to a flame. Deeply enchanted by what burned her. Some sort of an unfathomable spell was cast on her.

For the longest time, that girl watched herself from the inside. She was trapped. Then slowly, deep within that hollow prison, the oxygen no longer resided in her lungs, pulling her away from whatever kept her alive.

That’s when she realized: She needed to wake up.

She did.

But... it was too late, for the wounds her clumsy hands tried to hide had already turned into gory, ugly scars.

And as more and more years went by, as she grew up, those scars hung onto her, unwavering, taunting, and merciless.

If she had only reached out. To something other than that damned flame.

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