The women in the window

Often she would sit up until late at night, just so she was alone enough to hurt ,or for the pain her mind would create, for the pain she couldn't quite forgive the world for and it was quite a saddening shame, because when she was wild and free she was happy and oh how beautiful she was when that happiness overflowed. But when the moon began its slow descend and began to let the sun breath, you could always find her, sitting up in her loneliness...

And with a bottle of whisky in on hand and another cigarette in the other her inner war began. A raging tirade of assaults and gruesome murders taking place on each and every page Scorching her soul from the outside in, she was born different , dying from the moment she took her first breath, each chapter was a massacre that worsened her grief until one day, her story would end...
You could take another swing at her, it wouldn't do you any good. She was her own worst enemy, you couldn't hurt her even if you tried...
 The women in the window.

She hated the weekends because she thought they brought out the worst in  people and for those around her they did, and it wasn't always to no avail because it was for these moments she wove her pains between the lines of her beautifully donned lies, and she would sit at that old typewriter,hunting and pecking every word until her heart was empty and her soul was bare and the demons inside her were starved and her masterpiece was complete. But the time would come and just few moments before dawn arose he would come home and perhaps her joy would return, no one could ever tell, for he loved her in a way that both invigorated and suffocated her. Giving her life and taking it all away, simultaneously. She had never been as alive as the moment whence she had met him and yet, it was at that precise moment she had begun to die...
Her slow suicide.

She loved him the way prisoners grew to love their captors, the way lovers learnt to love being apart. She loved him with all the glories that she once had  and all that she would one day have, until she had nothing left at all. And it was sickening to stand back and see, how in the moonlight, tiny cracks in her smile would begin to show . How she had scars that not even time could heal. She had spiders and monsters lurking never so far deep beneath the surface of her glistening skin and bellow those , low and behold, was the worst kind of hell. Fires and pain, sadness and  the most excruciating of eternal aches, but beneath that , all the hollows of hell. She had paradise...
Sweet, soft and serene, she often fought to save this, or to Shield it from her cruel world, no one could tell but she was always afraid. No one person could get down there, never even near. Down those levels to all such as this, but he...

He was the little hope she still had ever reserved and then one day he had all of a sudden left, and now, now she is the tragedy of pity you see before you. Cold and hardened by her pain, often none could tell if he would return and mend all what he had shattered... And now as she is the women in the window, as she always had, she sits at her desk, buried behind that old typewriter beckoning the moments before dawn to break, it is never unseen in her eyes, that there is nothing, not a damn thing more tragically beautiful in this whole damned world than the way she loved him and you may say that they might have been together for the briefest eternity or the longest moment in time but it is always with sinking heart that we are to know, they were never together at all...