She is an angel. She is wearing white, pure yet plain, the brightness and gaiety of innocence and charm. It really is quite suitable for the occasion. She is a grade A student, she is a role model, she is a perfect example for the normal, average teenager. On the exterior that is. Inside, well, it's a whole other story. It is a battlefield, staging the remnants of a war that was won many a month ago. At the start, no real conquests were made and she remained a neutral holding place, a territory of sorts, for her argumentative emotions. But as the days trawled on, Depression and Anxiety began to draw their swords and slaughter anything Positive. Burning, breaking, crashing, falling: come on now, the darkness is calling. For a while, she resisted, and even began to recuperate and Happiness and Cheer began to rebel. But then came the storm, the one knock that wiped out the Joyous side and laid anything Positive to rest forever. She doesn't tell anyone how much it hurts. How she felt every word resonate inside of her. Every letter that spewed and flew into her range of hearing and how every single mock and insult ripped another piece of her soul in two.

She is a devil. Her hair is a long, crimson red, the kind that sparkles like a star when in the sun, and looks like the colour of splashed and spilled blood in the winter. She has a tortured past, a murderous future, and a suicidal present. No one would ever know who she really was. The outsider, the doormat, the one everyone thinks will just stand there and accept everything they say. The almost hypnotized one. But she is ignored half the time, words cut from her lips, her voice frozen by the others who couldn't really care less. She is silenced all the time. Dying, killing, murdering, pain: with all this hatred, what's there to gain? Her hair falls across her eyes. Blue eyes. The kind of blue that can be raging and ferocious, a wrong-coloured fire, but also soothing, calm, gentle, like the very soul of the sea and waves itself. She liked her eyes. And her hair, she always loved her hair. Somehow it was a part of who she was, and all the ridicule and stupidity and sunburns that came with it were always worth the hassle.

She is a mess. She stands in front of the bathroom mirror, staring intently at her reflection, like she hardly believes she looks like what she does. Her eyes, her cobalt eyes, are rimmed with black, red and blue. But this blue was a venomous kind of blue. Repulsive, unwanted, ugly. She feels ugly. Her lips are smeared with red, but not lipstick no, this is her blood. It's been seeping her whole life, directly from her heart. It had been invisible until now, but she put up with too much slander and now the truth of her character is etched across her lips. Staining, bruising, bashing, beating: why do we live when we are defeated? She slices the scissors across her cheek, no room left on her arms to deface with scars and cuts. As the blood drips from her face, dribbling down her neck and beginning to stain her white shirt, she takes a small strand of hair and snips it slowly, hearing every singular hair break and snap. That cut was for her salvation. The next is for him, the one who made her cry. The one after that is for her abusive "friends". In fact, she cuts seven pieces of hair for her friends, one for each of them. The seven sins. Two more come after that, one for Happiness and one for Joy. When she cuts those two, she loses them forever. There are some things that can't grow back. After those cuts she goes crazy, ripping her locks from her scalp, throwing the scissors to the side and screaming at her reflection in the mirror, tearing everything apart.

She is a magnificence. She stands in a pool of rouge coloured hairs that have fallen from her shoulders. She kept cutting long after she ran out of reasons. In some way, this hurts even more than anything else would. She hasn't just lost her sanity, she's lost her beauty and her disguise. She used to hide behind her locks and curls, hiding from the world. And now, she cannot escape, because there is nothing of her hair left, save a few roughly cut chunks. And it's the best feeling she's ever had. The one time in her life where she was in complete control. Love, envy, jealousy, delight: don't worry Sweetie, everyone gets a fright. No one understands why she did it, or why she does the things she does in the future. But she is bare, her soul shining through. She will do great and horrific things, but who can blame her? She's only human after all.

She is an angel, she is a devil, she is a mess, and she is an utter, utter magnificence.