The girl sits on her bed, typing away, endless streams of words fill the page, and she looks satisfied. She’s typing at a story that will never get finished; all those words will mean nothing in a mere few minutes. She readjusts herself, to get more comfortable on her bed, and her curtains, white and crisp, flutter in the breeze that just blew in her open window.

It’s a bright summer afternoon, birds chirping, the sun shining in the sky, and the thermometers rising by the minute. All the kids in the neighborhood are at the pool, or outside, or hanging out with their friends, enjoying not having to go to school and listen to a teacher drone on about something that they will most likely forget in a month or two.

Well, all expect this girl, this girl who I cannot name. She is sitting alone in her room, curtains drawn, but window open; just so she can get a faint breeze in to ruffle her golden colored hair, long and fine, just like her mother’s. She stops typing and grasps her sky blue colored coffee mug, filled with coffee, all black, no sugar or cream ever added.

She then turns to look out the window, just enough to flash me her dark chocolate brown eyes, so deep it seems anything could get lost in them and never come out. Her eyes are solemn, like she wishes to go out with everybody else out there, but her mouth is drawn in a tight line, like she knows that if she stops writing and doesn’t focus on her task, she will suffer grave consequences. I don’t know what that story was about, or why she needed to finish it, but honestly, it wasn’t my place to know, and it shouldn’t trouble me to wonder what it was. Yet, it did trouble me how every time she looked outside I could see her longing to go out there, but then something inside her pulled her back to her typing.

She stares at the computer, with a pained look on her face, and then regains herself and gets back to typing. I am very much going to regret what is going to happen to her.

Before she can even blink, I come out of hiding and grab her from behind and pull her into the closet. I quickly cover her mouth, apply pressure to her temples, and she slumps in my arms. I transfer her soul out of her body, and to the Gates of Heaven, and then I transfer Sydney’s soul into this body.

After a few painstakingly long minutes, she finally opens her eyes. I look into them and smile, they are not brown anymore.

They are a pure, metallic, beautiful silver, and she then smiles, revealing gleaming white teeth.

I smile back at her and she says, “Ah it feels good to be back. So, now that your job is done, I guess I won’t be seeing you anymore.”

Now, as we sit there, my smile turns into a smirk and I say, “Oh, you won’t be seeing much of anyone anymore. I’m sorry that I loved you.”

And then, I grab onto her with all my might, she gasps, her body goes slack; and I am left with a lifeless body. A body, that has no soul, no life inside of it; all I have is a shell, a shell for something that could be great, and something that could be terrible. I shall not fill this shell; it has done too much work already.

I gently lay the body down on her bed, and I see the laptop there, the words still on the page, the story still up. It cannot go unfinished; so I sit down on the bed and read what she has had so far. I cannot say what it was about, nor what I wrote in it; it is not my place to share. I’m not even sure what is to happen next in it, but she does know, and when her soul flashed before me, I knew what she knew; I saw what she saw, and now I know how she wishes to finish this story.

I sit down on the bed, being to type into the endless hours of the day. I finish the story, make some noise to signal to her parents that maybe something is going on upstairs, and then, I am gone.