Annie Stevens

I stumble on the wet grass, causing more mud to cake my bare feet. 

I am jealous of that girl. I am jealous because she doesn't seem to care. She can just sit there and not be miserable or upset or hurt. She can sit there and get wet and injured. All she ever does is sit there.

But me. I cared. I cared and they left me. I am miserable because no-one cares about me. I am upset because they let me trust them and then they threw me away. I am hurt because I loved them and they used me. I am hurt because wherever I go there is always something that injures me or causes me to bleed. I can't just sit there. 


That girl. That one girl who seems to hold the emotions of everyone around her, and toss them away like a useless piece of paper. That girl holds my jealousy. That girl likes my jealousy. That girl hasn't thrown it away. That girl will never throw it away. 

I once talked to her. All she did was to stare at me blankly, and to tell me in a soft monotone that I must keep. 
I have no idea what that meant.

And as I stare at her through the darkness and the torrents of rain, the lighting flashes and lights up her face. Her face is blank in the first short flash, but in the brighter, longer one it seems to be twisted with anger. And then the flash dies down and in the dim yellow light of the street lamp, I see a small smile on her face. A smile only I will notice.

While she causes me my worst feeling, that girl is my only source of comfort. 

The End

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