Soledad

She drags the blade across her wrists. Another day, another cut. Everyone knew that her cuts were clean but no one knew that she was cutting herself in the process. She was known as the ‘Highness of Strangeness’ but she was little spoken in basically everything. She liked making pictures with her own blood because it would make her feel happy. He felt as if she was a girl who held potential in a world of physical pain.

            Her hair was as rigid as nails and her eyes were an almond brown. She was good at managing her hair though for she figured out some weird way to put her hair in order. Her quiet trick was Vaseline because her mother had the same problem. She’d be pretty if she didn’t think of being ugly so much. However, she felt she was beautiful in her own way. This is why she tipped her bleeding wrist into a coffee can that contained a set of paint brushes. She mixed her own blood with water and used it as a watercolor because in her viewpoint, hard effort came literally from the blood within her own body. Potential came from hard times and the hard effort that she put into her paintings.

            She painted broken hearts, and girls in red dresses and red skulls with a rose leading from the top. She painted with black paint and colored it in with the watercolors of her own blood. Strange enough? Sick enough? She was always strange and sick enough. That’s what everyone overreacted about.

            Everyone saw her and she was wearing mostly a black or red skirt with a black or red blouse. She would never wear all red but on a lot of occasions, she would wear all black. She’d wear black boots that were buckled down by a silver buckle on the outside-part of her feet as she then had a pair of netted gloves that she would wear all day long but took them off when no one was around. Along with her skirt and blouse, if she wore a red blouse, she’d wear rugby-pattern stockings that were in the pattern of red and black. If she was all black, she’d wear a pattern of black and grey.