[Kara Morrow, YAC 18-19]

Kara is Killed by a Kar (sic).

Figments of city and sun light leak through the shade of the willow tree. Dark, bitter-sweet shade stretching to the horizon that one could walk forever and never find the end. Thirty people bask in the modpodge of light and dark, some crowded around the base of the willow tree while others stretched in the distance, climbing the dangling branches with the expertise that had grown from forever. The place was either grey or white and nothing else, one could stare at the leaves, the ground with no distinct material, the sky and convince themselves it was a color:

K is for KaraIndigo. That was it.

But immediately after certainty is reached it recoils from the touch.

Or is that… red?


“How long do you think it’s been now?” Number Ten asks curiously.

Fifteen sighs, she had been bored of this game before it began. Her fingers ran through Ten’s long dark hair, the movement mimicking a waterfall full of mud. “I really don’t know.” She murmurs and wove sections of her hair into a complex puzzle of twists and turns. Fifteen’s tongue slips from her mouth and hangs in the corner as she concentrates and Thirty’s skeptical eyes were glad she grew out of that habit. Twenty leans her heavy head against the back of the willow tree, she thought the sky looked quite yellow today, but at a second glance she was convinced it was teal, “I feel it has been long, how about the rest of you?”

Fifteen shook her head, “short. It seems Thirty came moments ago.”

“I’ve been here forever.” Thirty corrects her but Fifteen merely shrugged, there was no sense bickering over something that didn’t exist. Thirty lays on the ground, the soft, bendy ground that could not be described by anything on Earth- in life. Fifteen finishes her braid and tells Ten, “I wish my hair was long like yours.”

“No you don’t, long hair is insufferable,” Twenty chimed in and ran a hand through her frazzled and poorly curled locks, “you have such cute hair. It’s the hair length we always wanted it to be at.”

Fifteen nods but she’s not convinced, “I suppose.”

“I think fifteen is prettier than me.” Ten decides after a moment of silence that might have been a second or a hour, and runs off to go flaunt her new braid to the others before Fifteen could protest.

“We become a bit more vain.” Twenty tells her and Thirty nods “as we cared more about friends. Love. I think it was a good thing, mother certainly liked it.” Fifteen straightens her shoulders, “oh yeah? I bet she did.” She tucks what small section of hair that could actually reach behind her ear, “did we become better?” She asks softly.

“I can’t even remember fighting with her, it was so long ago.” Thirty stares into the light that used to envelope her on cold days, the shadows that cradled her to sleep, and wept. A familiar shaking of the shoulders, large tears tumbling down the sides of her face because she didn’t want to sit up. Twenty grimaces and looks off to the side at the view of their menacing void called home, watching Five and Six rest together in the center of nothing. Fifteen puts a hand over Thirty’s forehead as a simple gesture of comfort and looks away too.

They all shared the same hatred of their pain, the spite that boils their core when they look into the mirror to see deep frown wrinkles and blotchy faces. Fourteen wears an ugly purple mark over her inner elbow and everyone older has a sympathetic silver stripe in return. Fifteen has a fluffy rose colored streak over her left shoulder. Ten had blue and purple back marks that never faded on the girls, Thirty and Twenty bearing the curse of all of them, flaunting their disgusting past without a choice. Thirty cried and Twenty sang softly to herself, pretending her own breath was the wind she dearly missed, Fifteen looked at her future and thought, nothing changes.

But they had;  Fifteen thought she saw herself, but the mirror was the wrong way to look because in the window walking by was someone changed and molded by time and experiences, passing her by without a second glance.

Fifteen is a wallflower, not ready to dedicate herself to a beat yet, hesitant to take change by the hand and accept the offer of life. Her music is slow and somber, holding back time in a lengthy, dull rhythm.

Twenty was full of love, hope, new ideas and humor. Ready to dance an innocent waltz with adulthood. She tripped over her own feet and veered away from the intended steps just to see where the beat would move her. Three four time was just a suggestion and one she bent to the will of her feet.

Thirty was strong, passionate, wise and curious. Living a life she loved but ready taking on more and more steps. She learned to move her arms in rhythm, to roll her hips and shoulders like waves rising then falling against her body.

Thirty one was a scratched disk, nail marks ripping the music in the pattern of a faltering heart, before coming to a halt that burned silence into the ears of the listener. An overwhelming quiet that mutes every thought.

Thirty one was a shock to everybody. She didn’t react to a thing, like the void they lived in was inside her. Her eyes were grey and skin waxy that seemed to melt the longer she was there. She moved like every bone was gelatin and every joint frozen shut. Dried blood, a definite crimson leaking through thick, maroon that caked her body like a second skin and some splinters of glass still lingered in her skin. It was the first solid color they’d seen in ages, and eager eyes peered upon something solid. Solid blood, body, material. It was enchanting.

“What now?” Fifteen asked.

“Hopefully death.” Ten decided after a forlorned silence.


Don’t drink and drive.


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