“Maybe I’m just not cut out for this life thing,” she murmurs. The verdant of her eyes goes glassy, rivulets poised to spill over her pasty cheeks. The majority of her, from the coil of her untamed curls to the bluish tint trapped beneath her toenails, broadcasts desperation. 

She’s trapped inside her torture chamber of a body, this is nothing new. Somehow though, the drip, drip, dripping of the kitchen faucet, escape of sunlight falling from the sky, seem to pantomime the urgency radiating from her. We’ve got to save her. I have to save her, trumpets at me. 

“I can’t keep doing this,” she hiccups tears, converging at her chin. Her demands to the universe, god, the hazy sun, anything to make it better, to decrease the calamity knifing her nerves, gain momentum. I sit inches away, rooted by my own inadequacies to soothe her. Spindly arms wrapped around torso, she folds her knees beneath herself and begins to rock back and forth. The parallel motion swings like a pendulum, a metronome counting down to some abysmal crash.