[P] and death is the love of what hurts you the most

[Elena]

Some girls are full of heartache and poetry

When she was little, she got lost.

She had not meant to. One moment she was walking through the sunflower field with her mother and the next moment she was all alone, looking in between green stalks of the flowers, trying to find where she might have gone. She called out for her in that small, baby voice, but it felt like ages that she wandered in that field. Flowers that once made her so happy, now a cause for panic. She wondered if she would ever see her mother again.

And then she was there. Appeared before her with a heavenly halo wrapped around her head, at least this what her daughter pictures her to be.

“Elena, never do that again. I don’t know what I would do if I lost you,” her mother had wept into her blonde mane. And Elena wondered what would her mother do without her, but she never stopped to think, what would Elena do without her mother?

Elena feels something tuck beneath her breast bone, an emotion, it is strange enough that Elena knows it is not her own, and so she shakes it off as easily as a leaf blows on an autumn breeze. “I should thank you for the company,” she says and smiles, as she leads the woman to the salt water. Salt water: a healer that Elena could only aspire to be. “I have been trapped in conversations between my daughter and my ward, it is pleasant to speak with someone closer to my age,” she says like Nic and Elli are such a chore, but the way that smile sits on her face says they are anything but. She wonders for a moment though, how old the woman is. If they are close in age, or decades apart. Elena no longer knows what age means. Immortality has made her forgetful.

They reach the water and Elena splashes it against her, cleaning out the wound. It is shallow, superficial, but infection has bound itself to smaller wounds than this. The golden girl wears the woman’s sorrow and loneliness as her own. It doesn't feel as heavy knowing part belongs to someone else. It is better than feeling cold, closed off. Elena knows she still has a heart. It’s in pieces, little bits of shredded and tattered paper that lies in a cavity of her chest. But it’s there, beating feebly.

She thinks for a moment. “Tell me a story that has not happened yet,” she says, craving something new. “If you were brave enough to do anything, what would you do?” She asks her, voice of silver. She pauses, hanging in the silence. “Be brave,” she says, and those blue eyes melt into her own.

those are the kind of girls who try to save wolves

instead of running from them