The Window was Crying

March 22, 2011
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The window was crying.

Crystalline tears slide down the thick glass. She stares out listlessly, and the brown leather seat beneath her bumps along with the bus. Vacant blue eyes reflect the grayness of the day, of her life. A strand of brown falls into her face. She does not push it away. The jubilant chatter distinctive to a Friday afternoon swirl around her, but fall on deaf ears. The girl is the renegade, the oddity. The rain drums.

She clutches her backpack to her chest. The only thing she has, the only thing she can hold on to. Absentmindedly, she traces the flowery print, her fingers groping for something solid beneath them. Anything solid she can touch. The rain drums.

Her face holds no beauty. Simple unimpressive features. Thin lips, a too large nose, and skin so pale it is almost translucent. She blinks. Her eyes focus; focus on the rivulets of water that trickle down the side of the glass. Eyes the color of chocolate, dull and emotionless. The rain drums.

The tires squelch on the slick road, plow through puddles and pools of mud. Then it rolls to a stop as a faded blue house comes into view. The girl sighs and slings her backpack over her shoulder as she slides out of the seat. She hops off the bus and lands in a pothole full of swirling mud. Her half-closed eyes fly open, and then dart down to the dark muddy water that seeps through her socks. Annoyance flares in those eyes as a tired breath of air sighs from her lungs. Emotion shows in those eyes, vivid feeling colors her otherwise lifeless features. She lifts her head and smiles sheepishly.

The rain stops.

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