winter window

Something in her tells her this isn't right. Something bone-deep that's been screaming for longer than she can remember. Something with claws that tries to rip its way out of her skin.

She's curled up on her desk, leaning against a window. Cold glass presses against her forehead and shoulder as she watches the world lurch by through the branches of a barren tree. She watches broken people leave houses with peeling paint, cross dead brown lawns, and fold themselves up into rusty cars. She wonders how she got here, then wonders if they wonder too.

When she closes her eyes, the people are smiling. The houses are neat, the lawns are fresh and the cars run smooth and quiet. She calls this place "Should've Been" and tries hard not to see it. After she sees it, when she opens her eyes, the screaming thing inside screams that much louder.

"People aren't supposed to live like this."

He looks up from his magazine and she realizes she's spoken aloud.

"Like what?"

"Like this." Without uncrossing her arms, she gestures towards the window - towards the broken people, towards herself. She wants him to recognize the problem, to wrap her in his arms and make a little of the Shouldn't Be go away.

He shrugs. "That's life," he says, turning a page and returning his attention to the latest news in punk rock. He listens to music that tells him everything is empty, in order to fill himself up. The screaming thing inside her wants to tear at him. The spell is being tightened, slow stitching crafting careful scars.