Isabel Haley

Camellia is never too sure of herself. With every step she takes, she looks behind her, and with every friend she dreads to make, she wonders how many are talking about her while her back is turned. She practically has eyes in the back of her head at this point, but her heart shakes with that familiar irrational fear nonetheless. She doesn't love, she doesn't hug. It's not that easy, and it hasn't been in a long time. She had a friend—a true friend—not very long ago. Only a few years had passed. They felt like a lifetime and two minutes all at the same time.

Things didn't bode well for her, as they usually don't. Words were exchanged, verbal fists flew. She left before she could assess the damage; before she could make sure her best friend drew her last breath. She blew up, leaving only carnage in her wake, herself the sole survivor once more. Sometimes, or rather a lot of the time, she wished she hadn't survived the explosion. It would've been quick and easy. She wonders if her targets felt that way.

Camellia sometimes remembers a head on her shoulder. She remembers stiffening up, a breath leaving her at the same time she found herself going purple from lack of oxygen. Affection. So foreign, so new, so lovely when it came from a friend. Pure platonicity. It was beautiful, and she couldn’t help but want to cry. She thinks about that now, and she feels the blade slipping into her skin, making itself at home for a few short moments, and leaving as quickly as it came. Blood fell, her friend’s head left. Gone, forever—never to be seen again. That friend took every breath Camellia had failed to exhale, every breath that had left her from then on. Part of herself—the younger, yet less naive, pathetic little thing that she thought of now with much disdain—would always remain with Violet. Violet killed half of her, and took the pieces, leaving Camellia to build herself up again. Mourn a hundredth time. Cry and rage and experience everything and nothing all at once. She hoped Violet savored Mary. That was the last of Mary that Camellia ever saw, and Violet was none the wiser. She did not care about Camellia, yet unknowingly harbored a piece of her soul inside of her much purer one. Or at least that's what Camellia thinks. The part to her that knew who Violet was belonged with the girl. Now Camellia’s left to wonder, wonder, wonder, forever, endlessly, who her best friend was. What was the truth? What was a lie? She knows nothing at all.