The Sight
Grace Hilton
Sometimes, all I have to do is breathe the wrong way, and I can see her. She smiles at me, but it very quickly becomes a grimace, and morphs once again into a smirk. I know her. I see her. I miss her. I don’t know her…yet. She is everything, she is mine. She is nothing, nothing but a waste of time. What will she be? Always shifting. When she smiles, I see the cocksure girl who always knows exactly what to say, what to do to get her way. I see her eyes alight with adrenaline, a spark so fierce, I can’t breathe, can’t look away. The way she captures me in that gaze. Then, in less than a second, the fire diminishes, and her smile becomes sad, slowly, incrementally, until it fades completely. There are tears in her eyes, I can feel something clawing its way up my throat. A scream maybe. I want to call her, to pull her to me. Help her get out. I can see she still wants to smile, but she’s too broken down and scarred with grief to pretend anymore. Poor, broken angel, who will never let anyone call her that. Even when I see her defeated I see her strength, and I am thankful to know that even in dark moments, there is strength. Finally, I see her again, that smirk slipping onto her face like a glove that’s been waiting to be worn for an eternity. It’s not the confident, kind smirk that I know the first girl would give me if I ever met her, it’s twinged with maniacal laughter. There is a glint in her eyes, yes, but not a glint of fire. A glint of a sharpened blade. The now-woman is honed, her strength no longer quiet, realizing its full abilities. It’s not dulled, rather magnified. And although her clothes remain the same throughout the transformations, after the last she always, always, had hands covered in blood, paired with bright red stains criss-crossing her shirt. I know. She killed them all. I understand now. That she liked it. She liked it. She is broken. Poor, beautiful angel. The three girls chorus always in my head. And I ask them. Did they deserve it? Please, tell me they deserved it. Who hurt you? Who carries the weight of your kills on their back? Who? Who?
When I see them though, I understand.
I know the girl better than I know anyone else, but at the same time, they’re all completely unfamiliar.
Tell me, show me.
I want to know.
I must know.
I must.
I must know who I’m going to kill.
Grace Hilton
Sometimes, all I have to do is breathe the wrong way, and I can see her. She smiles at me, but it very quickly becomes a grimace, and morphs once again into a smirk. I know her. I see her. I miss her. I don’t know her…yet. She is everything, she is mine. She is nothing, nothing but a waste of time. What will she be? Always shifting. When she smiles, I see the cocksure girl who always knows exactly what to say, what to do to get her way. I see her eyes alight with adrenaline, a spark so fierce, I can’t breathe, can’t look away. The way she captures me in that gaze. Then, in less than a second, the fire diminishes, and her smile becomes sad, slowly, incrementally, until it fades completely. There are tears in her eyes, I can feel something clawing its way up my throat. A scream maybe. I want to call her, to pull her to me. Help her get out. I can see she still wants to smile, but she’s too broken down and scarred with grief to pretend anymore. Poor, broken angel, who will never let anyone call her that. Even when I see her defeated I see her strength, and I am thankful to know that even in dark moments, there is strength. Finally, I see her again, that smirk slipping onto her face like a glove that’s been waiting to be worn for an eternity. It’s not the confident, kind smirk that I know the first girl would give me if I ever met her, it’s twinged with maniacal laughter. There is a glint in her eyes, yes, but not a glint of fire. A glint of a sharpened blade. The now-woman is honed, her strength no longer quiet, realizing its full abilities. It’s not dulled, rather magnified. And although her clothes remain the same throughout the transformations, after the last she always, always, had hands covered in blood, paired with bright red stains criss-crossing her shirt. I know. She killed them all. I understand now. That she liked it. She liked it. She is broken. Poor, beautiful angel. The three girls chorus always in my head. And I ask them. Did they deserve it? Please, tell me they deserved it. Who hurt you? Who carries the weight of your kills on their back? Who? Who?
When I see them though, I understand.
I know the girl better than I know anyone else, but at the same time, they’re all completely unfamiliar.
Tell me, show me.
I want to know.
I must know.
I must.
I must know who I’m going to kill.