We are the Stars. Abandoned.
Left here for millennia, my Soul stripped down to a spark, I know only the icy pain of my prison - a constant flame of anger my only companion.
The space between the Stars is their greatest offense; nothing breaks me more than this separation from my brothers. In the name of broken laws of their own making, they took me from my brothers, and decorated their skies with the dim light of our half lives.
Their betrayal burns me. An ache that surpasses the cold.
Other places have some neat things — sweeping glass buildings that touch the clouds, or a thousand different people with a thousand different lives; but not here. Some places, you look up at an endless sky and you see a bright splash of color: blue or grey or pink or orange. Not here. There are places where the sun is hot or the wind is cold, and places that people travel for miles to see. Wild places full of briers and thorns. Not here. I’d love to see the world and all it’s many places, but for now I’d like to lay here, and Drift… Off… To sleep…
Ever since I was little, the playground in our neighborhood has kind of been my happy place. Whenever I felt really down or had a rough day, I’d walk down the street and end up on the bright blue swingset. It was old and worn out, the chains rusty and the paint chipped. But honestly, it just felt like home to me. Swaying in the swing always seemed to relax me. One muggy summer afternoon, late in August, I found myself in the swing again, but that day it didn’t seem to have it’s usual effect on me. It had been a long day and I was stressed out with all the little things inside my head. I kicked my legs out and back in, reaching higher and faster to clear my mind. After a few moments passed, I let out a frustrated sigh. Would this feeling ever leave, or am I stuck with this sticky, achy pit in my stomach? As I had done many times before, I leapt off the swing right as it reached its apex, intending to make my way home. PAIN. In an instant, I was on the ground, trying desperately to gasp air. I found myself battered by waves of retching, heaving sobs. Flames split my skin, hammers beat my skull. I scream.
To the casual observer, McKenna Fletcher often went unnoticed, becoming just another quiet piece of the scene. If asked, most would describe her as pretty, but not striking; straight auburn hair hung nearly to her waist, and she let it hang loose, often covering part of her lightly freckled face. She had a soft, rosy complexion and rarely gave more than a small smile to anyone other than her younger sister, Emmy.
On this particular morning, she wore a light purple sweater and blue jeans over her lithe figure, legs pulled up next to her on the plush green chair in the corner of the library. Though quite athletic, she wasn’t often seen doing anything but sketching in a large notebook, wide brown eyes seeing far beyond the surface of the paper.
At some point, she gave a gentle sigh and stood, hugging her sketchbook close to her chest. She walked over to the nearby window, a slight limp in her step, and simply stood there, gazing at a young family playing together at a park a floor below where she stood.