• A room. Cold. Quiet. Dead. A few guitars stand in the corner, gathering dust. A stack of CD’s on the floor. There’s a girl too. She’s pale. Very pale. Her eyes are lined in black and there’s a sheer pink skirt draped over her skeleton hips. Her hair is cut short and messy, and her bangs drop down to her sharp cheekbones, deep black. Her legs are crossed, thin and shaking.

    It's cold. It’s so ******** cold. To her it’s always cold. So she smokes. She smokes to warm her chilled, hollow bones. A cigarette is dangling from her long skinny fingers now, and she’s blowing smoke out through her yellowed teeth. God, she hates the cold, but the burn in her lungs warms her thin body. She wasn’t always so cold. She used to be warm. She used to fill her mouth. Now it’s empty, except for the cigarettes she sticks between her teeth and the smoke that fills her lungs.