1Strangely found in duress, such an apathy mixed with disgust and mild fear lied in her wake. Who could blame a subtle lack of sympathy coated in tasteless courage, whenever their eyes would even begin to comprehend a frail frame, a pitiful mane of blond, dirtied hair wrapped in two sloppy ponytails that hung elusively behind the nape of her creamy, sickly white neck? Endurances held up fairly well by their primary, if not collectively only thread of hatred. She gasped, a pathetic attempt at exhaling slight gasps of wind as her legs kept begging for pause.
Their patronizing yells for her head kept ringing in her bloody ears; would they not regard a single, lonely, lovely girl as something more livelily than say, a threat?
Such a threat she was. If not for her minor marathon, she would have spat towards their direction. But she wouldn't, for they were many. Many angered, misguided lambs carefully dressed as wolves. Hypocrites, the lot of them. For the hunters were weary of becoming the hunted, she stumbles upon a stand basked in a myriad of fruits, of diverse shapes and colours. Her soothingly, incredibly blue eyes calmly adjusted to the nightly lights of a market coated with people. Some were dreading her mere existence, whereas others would carefully choose not to interfere with her or her daily perpetrators. Oh, how her ears had caught the melodious chords of a nearby musician, his tune crowding, muffling the exasperated huffs of a morose stand attendant as she darted towards the exit.
She couldn't be more than fifteen, assuming by the still so-present baby fat on her face.
Gliding with a lack of practiced ease throughout the whole complex proved to be something not nearly as exhausting as purely running from one street to another. Nevertheless, her legs, painted with specks of dust and dirt, covered by thin, small grazes have not found peace yet. Her mind, disturbed as an eight year's old mind could be, had beseeched to comply with her primal need to scream for help. However, help never came.
It did. Not for her, though. Many cries of the lambs that stood high and mighty before her had fared to be heard. Damned were the many, she consoled herself. For the many were weak and frail, incapable of solitary thoughts.
Where their stride ended, she could not tell. Where hers ended, she could. A gloomy staircase bleakly painted, its beneath shoddily fenced with rusted bars, before them a small wooden door lied; along with a couple of soggy, dirtied cardboards.
Have the lambs stopped screaming?
le petit renard means the little fox in french
just a little preview of what s to come, wrote this on cigs and ironic depression
narunaru type fan fiction, dunno if it s gonna be incest but whatever, i ll cook something up when i ll post the rest of the chapter that I HAVEN T WROTE YET
i don t expect reviews or anything for 500 words, but please fucking let me know if you have suggestions because i don t have any directions with this "story" right now
don t be shy, just review, lemme know your thoughts
also, there s this one faggot that keeps spamming reviews on my story telling me to kill myself, fuck you too dude