Once upon a time there was a girl who didn’t care about death, sorrow and the thought of crying herself to sleep. She was happy to see her mother when she finally arrived on Christmas eve with a big bag of juicy goods. She lived with her grandmother you know. She didnt know why it was so, but so it was. And there were butterflies in her stomach, every day.

She could feel joy, happiness and disappointment. She wanted a life, but «sadly» she had an incredible imagination. Her imagination made her go mad, and that was only because of those people who didn’t understand. And there were many. Many people. School was often a nightmare. She couldn’t fit in. But in her white house, she did. She was safe. She got lost in her hallway, looking for lions and witches. 

She grew up among lilys and strawberries. She had flowers in her hair, and pink pom poms on her little bike. She didn’t knew that she would be standing in her white, ripped – naked room – years later, looking at the stars outside, a freezing cold winternight. A dark hollow sky. She didn’t belong. Her room died with her grandmother, and so did all the strawberries. 

She didn’t knew that words could hurt, and her longing for love was overwhelming.

She got dressed, and climed up on the roof, lying on her back. Looking at the stars, praying for answers. Answers that never came along, and she needed to pick her own flowers from now on. 

Where did you go, and why did you leave me? She whispered. No answers. She needed to pick her fights, but they were already chosen for her. Her fights was brutal, and her soul was gone.

Her soul could’t move. But her body did. Her mind did. She spoke bad words. She did  bad things. Her grandmother was gone, and  there was no lilys to pick. Only fights she couldn’t win. Her prayers grew weaker, until she couldn’t even remember the smell of dirt, potatoes and a warm kitchen. 

They used to walk outside. It was cold. Freezing cold. They walked and walked. They saw people through their windows, watching TV in a warm and cozy atmosphere. She still does that, sometimes. Walk. Looking inside the windows of strangers. Her little town has changed, and so has she. 

Sometimes she sits on «her» mountain above her old house, trying to remember a girl who got lost. 

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