Sharp cheek bones and pointy elbows and lips slightly stained from blackberry juice, that was what she was made of.
Bram brings her blackberries, a mocking smile on his face. She asks if he stole them. He laughs and tells her not to worry about that, miming the act of kissing her on the forehead.
She goes to the cinema and watches any horror movie that’s showing, sitting alone with a bored expression. Her ghosts are far more entertaining.
It’s hard to be scared when your life’s a horror film, a continuing loop of encounters with that that isn’t safe for good little girls.
Brambles catch her black leggings and catch at her hands, scratches form and she remembers that good little girls aren’t the type to wandering through abandoned gardens.
Sugar, spice and everything nice, that’s what little girls are made of. Except she isn’t sweet or spicy, perhaps she is sour, perhaps she is sharp, perhaps she just a little bit tart.
Everything nice? Ha. The people rotting like trash in various warehouses would most definitely say that she was not ‘everything nice’. Everything twisted, maybe.
She isn’t a good girl. She’s a very bad girl.
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