The Picture Frame

Black, gray, white, and a splotch of brown is all Scarlett ever knew. As she looks back into the dark, ominous meadow in which she’s been living in for as long as she can remember, she is still as a statue; only existing for the pleasure of others. She seems a depiction of beauty and perfection. But there’s one thing that would help Scarlett out of her misery, and that one thing would be to escape. Unfortunately, I cannot permit her out, for she is far too sinless, too pure.
Scarlett is beautiful, much prettier than I. She stands in the autumn leaves, and in the wind her long, luscious, brunette hair blows. Although, her hair never stops blowing, and she never stops standing. She wears a fitted tube top and a flowing skirt which rubs against her ankles. She’s natural, organic, doesn’t believe in shoes, nor does she believe in technology. She’s oblivious to the true terrors that lie just an inch from her. She looks back, never once has she looked forward. I look forward, though. Oh what I’d do to only look back once in a while. I stare at the tense figures pacing back and forth, and the innocent children no longer running merrily down the hall but walking back in disillusion. Older, wiser, wearier. As if the innocence, the flame that was once shining bright, has been put out by the harsh winds we call life. And through it all, through the endings and the beginnings, through the rain and the wind, Scarlett continues to look back. Back to the beauty, to the innocence. She continues to stay in that alluring, prepossessing place. Not that she could escape if she wanted to, of course.