The girl looked out the window of the bus, watching the thick droplets of perspiration that clung to the window. It had only begun raining a few minutes ago, but it had already begun to fall in thick sheets; pelting the bus as it drove through the cloud-darkened sky. The wind howled around the vehicle, causing it to shudder, so the girl was almost certain that the whole thing would topple over at any second.

But the bus never skidded or slipped, despite the little friction that the slick black road provided. The tires of the great contraption spluttered as it hit a puddle, sending spurts of water into the air.

She stared at the pane of cool glass, trying to find something to latch onto, some blurred image of something in the whirl of wind and rain that was steadily rising in intensity. Finding nothing other than the constant grayness of the world around her, she softened her gaze slightly. Lifting her hand, she pressed it gently to the window, one finger at a time. The scratched surface felt cold as ice under her warm fingertips, and she shuddered at the iciness of the pane.

Growing bored of the fog that was beginning to form around the palm of her hand, the girl turned her attention to her faded reflection in the window. Her gaze immediately fell upon her eyes; cold and unforgiving. She made a face. The girl didn’t like that look in her eyes, though sadly it was the figure they assumed on almost a regular basis. She thought the expression looked mean, if not slightly condescending.

She hadn’t always looked this menacing. Once her eyes still held the playfulness of childhood, and the gleam of innocence. She had always been a happy child, bright and energetic. She was good looking, too, with fair golden hair and clear gray eyes. She was friends with everyone, got good grades in school, and nobody ever yelled at her.

But then, she grew up.

As she got older, she began to learn the truths of the world, of cruelty and sorrow. Yet she herself never experienced any of these; her life was perfect, an ideality sought out by so many that it made her sick. Sick to think that she was allowed to be so joyful when others were so laden with sorrow. Eventually, this joyfulness turned to boredom, and loathing.

She had begun to grow tired of her perfect life, of her loving family and friends, her good grades and exquisite social life. It all seemed so…repetitive, to her. Every day was the same; school, friends, study, sleep. School, friends, study, sleep. Day in and day out, this was her life.

Sure, she had happy times, different excitements that broke the mold. A surprise birthday party, reading an especially good book, maybe watching a particularly interesting movie with her friends. But these were just slight alterations, exceptions to her normal, boring life. She eventually began to realize that what she had originally thought was happiness and contentedness, was simply tolerance. That she had only ever been truly happy in these fleeting moments of difference, and even then it had been a shallow happiness with little reward.

Eventually, this boredom had turned to loathing. A dull throbbing pain in her heart which prevented her from enjoying the luxuries of life.

Staring out the window, she recalled upon this, thinking about her fleeting youth, and how her life would not be this spoiled for long. That she would have to enter the world of adulthood with no background of struggle or hardship.

This life is not one worth living for.

She thought solemnly. But really, what was the point? She had all that she could have ever wanted, everything anyone had ever desired; popularity, wealth, beauty, intelligence, love. What more could there be? What was she living for? Why was she standing her, breathing this air with those that struggle with life’s obstacles? What was the point?

But I don’t want to die.

She realized suddenly. Death could bring her no comfort, only more sorrow or emptiness. Death would not resolve anything. It would help no one and only drag down those who cared for her.

I don’t want to live, but don’t want to die, either.

How low could she be? How shallow? Life wasn’t good enough for her, yet she had to nerve to be as audacious as to refuse death? What could possibly please her? What was enough? Would anything ever be enough though? For if everyone wanted everything she had, then what more could she need?

I want to live another life. One with struggle and pain, loss and challenge. I don’t want to be helped through every one of life’s obstacles, but rise to meet them on my own two feet. I don’t want to be a hollow shell, looking down on everyone. I want to be with them, to suffer with them and to help them as they will help me.

I want to live a life worth living.