TwelveMature

The day has come. The day to pay the final goodbyes to you. Your friend chooses a black dress. Not because of tradition. It shows how she feels. Empty. Devoid of color. Absent of flavor. She is a shell of her previous self. How she longs for one more day with you. So she could tell you how loved you are. Instead, she is sitting in your kitchen, attempting to tame the hair of your sister. They do not speak as she applies mascara to your sister's face: the special mascara (waterproof, for weddings and funerals only). Though your friend loves your sister very much, she would have much rather seen you walk the stage on graduation, seen you walk down the aisle to meet that handsome groom, seen you beam in joy down at your first child. It hasn't yet registered that this is the last time she will ever see your face, dead or alive. She has finished your sister's makeup and wonders how someone who is so beautiful on the outside can be so broken on the inside. Much like you.

Twelve.

The End

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