the-scar-theory

Most people shout, kick or scream when they're overjoyed; she stays silent. Sitting in a thin, white petticoat with a bow on the left, on crisp sheets that smell of jasmine; her knees pulled to her chest, her chin resting in them, she hums his favourite song. She's 18 and clueless, she's 18 and lost, she's 18 and madly in love. Her skin in soft and her hair wet, oh, she's so plain – she used to mind it, but not anymore. She waits for her heart to usher itself to a stop, it beats rapaciously. The thrill still lingers in the tips of her fingers, burns down the side of her neck. She throws herself back and grins. She giggles like a child

 A wet dog now sits by my side, smelling of grass and damp mud. He usually runs to the house when it starts to rain, but not this time. It did not begin slow and fragile, like always; a water bomb exploded. The static lightening made for a phenomenal entrance, against a suddenly graphite sky. He looked up in fear, awe and in just the same amount of puzzlement. He and I both knew the downpour today was different. God had had a fit. I called to the dazed animal, failing to notice that he had already begun to step backwards cautiously. The winds ran ferociously, but they were running scared too. I'm positioned to believe, they were fleeing