The stories we tell.

When I was a real girl, I smiled wide for the camera. Teeth and all. My mom took the pictures and I stood very very straight. Bag on my shoulders and a white hairband pulling my hair back . I hugged the house helper- my partner in crime- tight and then jumped on the bus, helped by two sets of firm hands. I sat in the window seat and on the way back played games of paper with my mates.


When I was a real girl, I woke up excitedly every morning, eyes brimming with the hope of a good day. I braided my hair back and never forgot to put in the Harry Potter book in my bag. I did not hug my partner in crime because you cannot hug people that are not alive. Two firm sets of hands helped me on the bus, but this time my own. I sat in the window seat and on the way back, sung songs.


When that real girl died, I stopped  smiling for the camera. And I woke up empty.
When the real girl died, I cried every night to not go to school.


One day, with eyes hollow and smiles plastered on my face, taped too tightly to get them off, I left everything I knew behind. The days of paper games were gone.


The girl who died inside came to a whole new world. Because in this world, she was not dead. In this world, she could start again- alive.


One day, a dead girl rose form her grave and started smiling. Not with teeth. Those days would not come for long. But a whisper of a smile. A little hope amidst un-ending chaos.