She walked across the garden in her mansion. It was the only place that was well kept. It was the only thing that had been preserved and was looked after all these years.
She wore tattered clothes and had scratches on herself. She looked pretty unkempt and it felt as if she could do with a nice and warm bath. Moreover, she craved for a hug.
She had herself, with her tiny hands, built the high wall around the mansion, which looked like a huge castle atop a dark and dangerous hill. The hill was infamous for its bushy, thorny and deathly overgrowths. Rumor had it, that anyone who dared to climb it, would return, but hurt and refused to speak of it, or would never trust someone ever.
She kept hearing them for years now. Every single remark echoed up to the hill and rung in her ears everyday. Her little garden had all kinds of flowers, but she was skeptical about the rose plant. She knew that plant would only prick her if she went closer.
There were a keeper or two, who would come and look after her, though she was ungrateful enough to push them away everytime they ventured close. She would turn as cold as ice and as hard as cement when they did. She was a maniac, a psychotic or so many said. The rose, she never looked at, had another reason to it.
The rose reminded her of moments that were beautiful, of times when the hills were shrouded with lush green trees, of days when she was healthy and felt gorgeous.
But now, so was time, that she couldn't look at it. She didn't feel like it. She was going through such excruciating pain that she couldn't utter a word. She wanted to be held and caressed, but she couldn't speak of it, because all she felt, was that she would be cast away by people. She knew there were only trying to reach her, to nurse her back, but she never wanted them to suffer, for the sake of her, because she somewhere knew, she was ungrateful.
She went back in, the once majestic mansion, now looked ghastly. The floors looked all sorts of grim and scum and the windows resembled the concrete falling from the corners. The chandelier now hung, only because it was, but it never shone like before. She went up the staircase and the pictures hung on the walls seemed to follow her.
Although the sun shone bright over the region, the hill was almost always covered with a large, dark cloud. Hence, she too was sunken and dark, was thin and malnourished. She knew she needed an embrace to put her to sleep, a pat on the cheek to tell her that all was well. She knew well too, that she, was stubborn enough to push everyone away.
There was one room though, it was beautifully kept. It had a window, that overlooked some sunny place, with a clean vase holding a daisy, with yellow curtains and blue pillows to go with. The desk had many books and quills. It had a typewriter nice and red, and a pen that looked blissfully blue. There was a gramophone, with vinyl records, of a voice that she always loved.
She went in there, looked at it, daring not to touch it. She feared it would all lose its innocence. Every night the clock would strike and she would look out of her window. She would see the moon shine bright that it would deserve a ten on ten.
She knew, she had to succumb; to herself, to her darkened thoughts. She slowly crept down the hallway and into the garden. She slid the casket to the side and shifted into the little spot.
She pulled a lever and it did its job, she was as cold as ice and as hard as the cement that covered her on top. The moon shone bright and a few stars fell, just like the dreams she once saw. The tombstone glowed in an eerie light.... She knew she was a mangled sight.
