One
She appeared next to my bed, and I sat up. She wasn't dressed like an angel. Her face did not glow. I could make out the wrinkles on her face and her tired, dried up eyes, from the light that came through the rims of the closed window behind her, and lit up half her face.
I wasn't afraid. I wasn't even surprised.
- "Where are you now?" I asked. My voice clear, and unsuccessful.
- "I don't know.
In the field. I don't care, usually."
- "Are you alright?"
- "Why didn't you cry for me?"
- "I wasn't sad."
- "I was."
- "I was glad you were gone."
- "I understand."
- "Where are you going now?"
- "Back to the field. It's unclear. You won't know. For the most part, I won't either."
- "I hope you're alright."
- "I just hope it ends sometime."
She walked out my door. I lied back down, eyes open. Buried my face in the pillow, and fell asleep.
Two
I sat on a park bench and a little boy held my face. He was painting it, and all I could feel was wet, cold, and uncomfortable. When he was done, I looked at myself in a mirror, and I was a little girl again, with her face painted like a clown. I looked at the boy, and he burst into tears. I didn't feel like crying, but I cried too, mainly out of politeness.
I cried too, all the way into next morning.