All she sees are the reeds whispering sweet, sweet, singing, kind words while her parents shout loudly, I told you this and I told you that. A harsh, chemical, acid-burning hatred that they propel themselves into each other every day as she lies in the soft grass. Their words melt the sugar in the bare house into candy cane. “Because we are poor, baby, we are very poor, and you and your new shoes don't help us. » Money. It always comes down to money. Julia doesn't have a pot of gold or a rainbow, but she wants one so she can throw it all over her parents, throw it all over herself, and be happy. She is a dandelion in their life. Make a wish and she'll fly off to make it come true, but despite her best efforts, there's no money her younger self can come up with. No peace for the seeker. She is tired. a million pieces, and when it breaks again, the edges are jagged, sharp, more fragile than before but stuck inside her, drawing out the blood and sinking in, a clean wisdom going straight to the heart. It hurts. It's rooted in his beating artery. I'm growing up, I'm leaving. I will never be poor again.~Julia Douglass stands on the pier with a friend, Caroline Conway. Caroline, with unruly autumn hair and parchment-pale skin. Caroline, with sweet words and a kind soul. Caroline explains to him how there's this guy, and he's really nice but super lonely because he's been living in the country for a while. He's homeschooled, doesn't know anyone, and no one really wants to know him. Julia only listens to one word. "And he's pretty rich, the only son of two businessmen, and-" Rich. She's been nursing this wound for a while. long, letting it grow and grow until each sunset represents...... middle of paper ...... a sound to add to her grip, but she is transfixed by something, stumbles forward and falls to the soft, soggy ground. earth. A miserable smell filled the air. Julia doesn't look but she hears him vomiting constantly into the metal trash cans, hearing him fall completely to the ground beside her. He looks at her worriedly and she looks at him. A moment of tenderness. Suddenly his eyes turn, refocus, and he stands up, staggering backwards, gripping the brick, running away to leave it with glass reeds, metal tree trunks, and soft earth. Triumphant. She moaned now, feeling the bullet and its bloody cut path. Its meowing howl goes unnoticed, unrecognized among the singing reeds. Shaking hands come out from under her like molasses and her hands hold blood that glows magenta in the light of the punk glow stick. Always triumphant. She lies to herself..