The dull haze of smoke filled the room, twisting tendrils rising from the burning end of her cigarette. Inhale, exhale, breathe her life away. Scarlett pushed a stray strand of glossy black hair from her pale face with one black-polished fingernail. That godforsaken room was not particularly notable, walls covered in posters of bands that screamed agony and floor covered with piles of books that bled pain.
Absently she ashed the cigarette, narrowed eyes taking it all in. The room was the very essence of him, of that beautifully broken boy she'd come to adore and hate all at the same time. She could feel him there, even if her too-bright blue eyes couldnt see him. Within her fragmented heart she could feel him.
Scarlett was the sort of girl to lose herself in fantasies, to slip from reality ever so slightly. She found comfort in the strangest of places... in the gothic works of King and Poe, or the twisted tangles of that boy's black sheets. More than anything, she knew she was living merely to breathe. She knew that purpose had long since escaped her, and until she found some, she would fade like the ashes she dropped.