| May. 29th, 2008 @ 10:47 am the lost girl |
|---|
Lost. I guess that's a nice way of putting it. When you're lost, there's always a chance you will be found.
Flash to five years in the future.
She's lying face down, buried in her own blood and vomit. Inhaling the acid fumes created by said vomit destroyed her lungs, and she drowned, died.
Alone.
Alone.
Where is everyone, where are all those enablers that provided false hope?
Not here, actually never were.
False promises and encouragement is easy via a computer screen.
Nobody really cared, not the mother, not the confused brother (too busy trying on dresses)
Flashlights, one, 3, five total, surround the corpse. Who is she, nobody knows, no ID (that was lost, along with her cell phone, weeks ago.) Maybe dental records or a trip to the local tattoo places may be able to identify. Not holding out much hope.
The coffin is manhandled into a generic grave with a generic marker. (Jane Doe #22 2013)
Finally at rest.
"Hey, remember that girl with all the tattoos who was fucking falling down drunk all the time?"
"Yeah, what about her?"
"What ever happened to that bitch."
"Don't know, don't care."
"I think her name was Margie or something like that."
""Her name was Maggie.""
"Who the fuck are you!?"
""Just someone who cared, a long time ago.""
"Yeah, well, if you see her, tell her I said to go fuck herself."
""I'm going to visit her now, why don't you join me...."" |
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