On Monday, she was everything and anything and definitely something.
On Monday, she was.
She had a violet in her hair, and in careful hands she carried her secret wishes.
Sometimes, she would think about them. They made her smile.
On Tuesday, her brother went away.
He told her it wouldn't be for too long, and she told him not to worry, she would be fine, truly.
She told herself the lie, as though she believed it.
So off he went and there she stayed, with a wound on her heart where the pin had pricked it.
Slowly, it began to bleed.
On Wednesday, her dreams broke.
It wasn't even her fault. It was his.
He threw his words at her, as sharp as the shards that littered the floor.
They pierced her heart, but she didn't know what to do about it.
She just stared.
The blood was thick. It stained everything, painting her as something else.
When he was gone, she tried to gather up the broken pieces, or what remained of it, to hide away, to mend later. She knew she could.
On Thursday, her father was gone, forever.
She was the only one left.
This time, she didn't feel the blade, she was too numb.
She watched as it cut and carved and clawed until something fell out in a bloody mess.
All she had now was an empty ribcage, cradling the faint echoes of her love.
Each bone, like fingers, clutching at what was no longer there. Just a hollow ache.
Later, she looked for the violet, but found only dust. It had withered away, into nothing.
On Friday, she picked flowers.
There was nothing better to do, there had never been anything better.
Radiating out from the garden like brilliant scribbles, there were a thousand to choose from.
Reds and yellows and blues and pinks; amid the mottled green they bled their colour.
They had a sweet aroma, overwhelmingly so, that she thought she could see the fumes wafting around her, seeping into her skin.
She cherished their fleeting beauty. But despite the vibrant array, her tender fingers plucked a daisy - a flicker of white caught in a rainbow, so simple and pure among the ornate chaos.
Its crisp petals were laced with gold in the sun's sketch.
She held it tight. It would not last long. Nothing does.
On Saturday, she returned to the garden, to tangle stems together into delicate garlands.
She sang as she weaved, a quiet dirge. Although her mind was full of notes and blossom, her dead heart was plagued with guilt.
If only she had been better . . . she could have stopped it . . . all her fault . . .
The harrowing thoughts sat deep inside of her.
For a while she admired the velvet bloom of the garlands, and decided that they must be put where everyone can see them.
Her ardent eyes sought out the lithe branches of a willow, standing guard next to a creek.
The still water was flecked with fractured sunlight, distorting the reflection.
From behind a curtain of whistling leaves she climbed higher and higher.
The bark smooth under her hands. Her eyes only seeing that top branch.
So close. Almost . . . She fell.
Ripples shook through the petal-cloaked stream.
Afloat for a while, her lilting voice sang melodies to the swaying branches above, her skirts billowed out in a cloud around her.
But the water still climbed higher.
It caressed her face and laced its fingers around her neck, slowly pulling her under.
Into the murky depths, she faded away.
On Sunday, there was the news of a girl lost in the weeping brook.
How terribly sad, a lovely girl, they said.
From behind their painted masks of sorrow, they lamented her death, but from behind their ribs, their hearts spilt nothing.
In the empty garden lay a lonely daisy, limp petals starting to shrivel.
On Sunday, she wasn't.
• By Becky Kerr (year 13, Kavanagh College)
