Her smile is false. An obvious lie built beneath a sandbagging of dead eyes. She walks about in seeming comfort dragging discomfort and damage in her wake.
Her character shines a dull light of negativity in bursts so short you do not recognize the impact, at first. She hides behind a hideous giggle that sounds as if she’s kidnapped it from a happier woman and swallowed it to fit her version of normal. I imagine that giggle gets caught in her throat fighting against her esophagus trying to find genuine femininity.
Usurper of laughter she spins ordinary circumstances into unbelievably terrible stories. It’s as if she is oblivious to her own lack of continuity. I often wonder if she knows we know she is telling yet another lie.
Does she care or is the rush of being momentarily in the eyes of her own spotlight a greater high?
This is an excerpt from a story that’s brewing in my bones. No idea who this woman is or what she’s going to do. What I love about being a writer is having these stories live inside me. I hold them in gestation. Until childbirth.