Marked by a look of sadness and loss, her dead eyes always seem to be staring into nothing. The thin veneer of optimism and sensitivity for others wears thin and the anger bubbling below becomes visible. Anger for the void she feels all of the time, waiting for something, someone to spark the flint that she believes is dead. Angry that nobody seems to want to or try to love her the way she needs---and angry that she needs this, that it eats at her and wears down the paint. The gloss is gone and the color is fading and it won’t be long until she fades into the background or burns to the ground.
Approach with caution, the pariah is volatile. One extreme to the other, she can’t seem to find her bearings, her emotions taking her further and further from herself.
In stark opposition: The butterfly. A beautiful creature, nothing seems to scar her, mark her as affected. She flits over the world, in reality, but it doesn’t seem to weigh on her as heavily as it does on the pariah. Memories last forever in the vault that the pariah has created in her head. The butterfly has the ability to forget, move on. The green monster grows as the pariah wishes to fly, but the vault weighs her down. She turns red, angry and wants to crush the beauty, the assuredness, the pure freedom that seems to bless the butterfly. And when she does; shows the butterfly her ugly face; scares her away for good, she instantly regrets it. Living without beauty, she no longer has any reprieve from the joy that the butterfly gave her. Just to watch her, so sure of herself, so free—should have been enough. But for the pariah, as much as she tries to avoid it, the void engulfs her, and nothing is ever enough.
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