Life never goes as planned. That was the first thing she learned, and she learned it quickly enough. Just seconds after giving birth, her mother had died. Her father, of course, had witnessed the death of his beloved wife and promptly fell to the floor in a crumpled heap of forever limp skin and bones.
She hadn’t even cried. The doctors were concerned until they discovered that she was mute. Several hours later, the nurses heard her make attempts at crying. The shrieking sound, ending in a half smothered sob that sounded as though it had erupted from a dying, strangled creature….the sound was enough to unnerve the entirety of the hospital staff on shift. They were afraid of her, the mute girl with the demon cries.
The orphanage she was put into at first did a decent job of feeding and clothing its inhabitants, but she grew up with no affection, love, consideration, or fun. She lived a dry life, and had been employed by the orphanage headmistress as her own personal worker.
Worker, of course, was but the formal name for slave.
She endured agonizing hours of careful bookkeeping, handed out food to all the other girls and boys before she could eat for herself, and cleaned after them when they were gone. it was solitary, but she almost preferred it to the mindless prattle of the other crowds her age. Atleast when she was busy cleaning or bookkeeping, she could work in silence. Having nobody to speak to just meant that she would perfume the air around her with her thoughts. She built herself a bubble of calmness, an air of haughty aloof disdain for the immature children she was forced to associate herself with.
But of course, as all bad luck works, her misfortunes were not over. She was finally adopted, but into a house as cold and unseemly as her first. This was a rich couple who needed a new plaything, somebody to fuss over and play dress-up with. They brought her all manners of playthings and fancy baubles. But never spoke to her a loving word. They would dress her up, take pictures, fuss and fret over their reels, and leave her alone, all by herself, while they planned out their next set of photography. She was their silent beauty queen. And their ticket to vast wealth, of course, because by channeling her grief into their art, they made, for themselves, a very much monopolized niche in the photography business. If anybody had a misfortune to be recorded o n camera, they were the couple to seek. And at the end of every night, she would silently cry, rivulets of sorrow and depression welling up within her very core and spilling forth in a desperate attempt at finding inner solace.
Interaction with the world was forbidden – If she disobeyed, she would ruin the perfect taint of an eternally bitter and unfulfilled life. They needed her – she was their model. Why, in the photographer’s world, she was the very definition of "sad.
One day, as she sat in her windowless room, she realized that if such a life was to be hers for as long as she was alive, there really was nouse to it.
She walked slowly out of her room, down the stairs, and out of the house. She stood there by the side of the road in front of the house, waiting for a car to drive by. As her fortune, or lack thereof, would have it, one came careening by, taking such a nasty turn around the bend before her street that it had barely regained its balance and kept from toppling over. It went speeding through the usually empty quiet neighborhood, and as it approached the girl, she did what she should have done long ago.
One brave – or foolish – leap later, it was all done. But not before she had locked eyes with the young boy across the street from her, his mouth frozen into a horrified "no." Her own face had contorted into one of astonished regret, but there was no going back.
She died on the spot. The young boy silently mourned her demise.