It had been a long summer with her and her negative spirit. Dee, my friend, my sister and my life's teacher who almost took her life once again; On that Monday, I watched her closely, patiently full of sorrow, observant like a hawk. She was with familiar faces and everyone followed one another like a school of fish looking for bait; everyone was playing around her. Her face was like so many other women, almost pretty, but kept from being so by one unbecoming feature: her smile, there was none. Her body neither provoked lust nor revulsion in a man; it was thin paper, not slender. Her jeans seemed to hang loosely from her almost non-existent hips. Her hair glistened from the sun and weighed heavy with oil on her shoulders; she had not washed it for many days. She did not care. The slippery sliding of the heaven's water across her hands looked as though it felt cool under the steaming August sun: A drop of sweat slowly drips down her blank face. No wait! Was that a tear? Night was but a few precious hours away, and birds in the trees, but birds told only half the story, to outsiders, and the rest to the deep archives of her mind, where tragedy and hope mingled like a maze into one bright memory. .
The dewy evening was like a surreal play in my backyard. Children moved around her, washed their hands in the fountain, whispered their lives to one another, burst like giant soap bubbles into a sparkling of chaotic laughter, and then quietly were whisked away by the coming of the evening. It was all there, happening, evolving little stories she could not comprehend. It was she who was so different; she couldn't hear and her sight was slowly deteriorating into darkness; much like what you see when you go to sleep. There was one time she could do both. Slowly the children left one by one; the night would be there soon.
She tried to kill herself twice before. Kill- an awful, over-reactive word.