Frumpologist's Journal

We cannot see her at first. The shadows hide her, make us blind to her. It isn't until a soft sniffle comes from the corner of the room that we finally know she's there, huddled in the dark with her knees up to her chest. Crying. Crying so quietly, it seems wrong to be imposing. We know that she doesn't want to be heard. She is scared of us, scared of them. She is afraid of everyone now.

We don't step forward to reveal ourselves to her. Instead, we stand from afar and watch her try and force away the tears. Each gentle breath dances around the room until she finally composes herself and stares blankly at the adjacent white wall. It is now that we are most afraid. When she is quiet, trapped inside of herself. These times, we know, she keeps them secret. Just as she tries with every other moment in her life. She goes where no one can hear her, she hides so that we may not find her. But we are always drawn to her; that little girl.

Her beauty was incomparable. Blonde haired, blue-eyed, freckled in the right places and smiles all the time. A gorgeous child, by any right. It's weird now, seeing her broken down and haggard. She's lost. And we can offer her no guidance. Our curse is to watch her from a distance, listen to the pleading in the night and whisper our support to her deaf ears. We long to tell her that she's still the same girl, but we know that it's nothing more than an encouraging lie. She will never be that little girl again.

We step lightly out of the room and close the door behind us. Just as last time, she is none the wiser. She is wasting away and we... we cannot do anything to help. She is inconsolable. We fear she may die. In fact, she probably already has.