Her hair was the kind of brown where you just knew she was born blonde. Eyes, big and bright, filled with a wonder I couldn't name or place. She kept a ribbon tied in her hair; never yellow, it reminded her of mothers and children. She was a mystery to everyone and a misery to me.
They said that the colour of her skin was something that resembled perfection. White porcelain with peach undertones, something of a doll; a child made from china, painted colourful with deft fingers scarred blue.
Curiousity got the best of me and I looked too deep, too quickly; oceanic blue eyes that shifted like they'd already drowned every living soul that had stepped too close, sand-lined belly full, sated. I started to wish I'd learnt to swim but the waves were almost poetic, I kept yelling and each of my syllables would form a bubble that would float the surface and be lost. That was easy enough to explain with the laws of physics and the taste of salt water in my throat.
When i yelled at her in the house, the words just vanished, lost momentum and dropped in the slightly too large gap between us; word-bricks made up of the coppery tang of blood and stale hate.
She began to fade a little over time, her flesh turned opalescent and her breath dulled to the softest of whispers; an unfurling of child-waves new to the sea. Colours dimmed for her then and I became emboldened; I taunted her paper flesh with vicious kisses given by lips made of memory and the slightest tang of ivory until I was my own mystery and her misery.