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Paper Vases

I walked alongside her. As she spoke about the color of her prom dress, she began pushing back her long, black hair over her shoulder so it looked as though a waterfall beautifully fell over her collarbone. Through the corners of my eyes, I watched her hands as they caressed the paper vase of flowers which matched the color of her cheeks and the lilac in her shirt, with the smell of last night's laundry day. And when she spoke, stars traveled through her words forming constellations on her tongue, skimming the pupils of his eyes. My words were just sounds to him. The flowers he had given her didn't match the color of my eyes, and had no resemblance of the feeling of my touch.

I guess when you asked me to get high with you, I acted as company, cause you hate feeling alone. I guess when you insisted on walking me to work, you just had time to spare and found enjoyment in the neckline of my shirt falling a little too low. I guess when you texted me at two in the morning letting me know that the song I showed you was stuck in your head, acted more as an annoyance rather than a personal memory or knick-knack. And I knew you were bad for me, and i knew that you had some sort of fetish for creating pain in the vulnerable, but I never knew how weak I was until I watched her bring your flowers up to her nose and inhale the smell of your hopes and dreams, and your fear of rejection. She inhaled your mind which is filled with polaroid pictures of her. Each petal made up his thoughts of her and her words, and my broken promises I had created with myself; with my own thoughts desperately convincing myself that I didn't have feelings for you. And as I found myself staring at the petals left behind on the sidewalk, I went back to step on them.

Newspaper 1 "The Obituary"

On Wellington Street

There was an obituary that appeared in the newspaper a few days ago. The person who died was an adult male, almost forty-five years old. The entry had his name, birth date, and the date of his death. However, all other information had been withheld.The only other piece of text that was included was a single line; “Their pain has ended.” The lack of information is especially strange considering obituaries are often written by or with the permission of the family involved. I have asked around, but few people have been willing to comment on it.

Upon speaking with the family and talking with local police I was able to get some information. The following is from the testimony of the families eldest daughter of sixteen. It is important to note that despite the strange nature of her admission, she has been deemed sane, and has not be accused of having any fault in the death of her step father.

“I was waiting at the park when the man came up to me . He sat down on the bench and asked me how I had been. He used my name, though I had never seen the man in all of my life. He was very old, and smelled heavily of cologne. His suite was olive green and his eyes were slightly pink. He had dark gums and thin, pink lips. His skin was pale, and was very wrinkly. I didn't like his voice. It was like listening to glass speak.

I asked him how he knew my name. He wouldn't answer that, and simply asked me again how I had been. I didn't know what to make of him. He was talking to me like I knew him, but I knew I had never seen his face before. I was going to leave, but David had told me not to go home for at least a hour. It had only been a half hour, and I was beginning to worry about my sister again.

I told him I was fine, but something in the way he frowned at me made it clear he knew I was lying.

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