The Betelguese

Short gasps. She could see everything what others didn't. Letting her hair loose, she surged ahead into the crowd. Averting her eyes from the prying gaze. She walked on faster. Her vibrant colours faded as she walked, the colours seemed to evaporate. She tripped on the puddle, she breathed a curse. She clutched her bag closer to her. She looked up, scared, but confident again. No one noticed a thing. She knew she was beign followed. She hurriedly walked inside the causeway. The twinkling antiques made her dizzy. She didn't like the smell. She felt a little tizzy, she yearned for a drizzle. She knew it was what he had given her. She felt betrayed. She was closer now. The waves bellowed her in. But she smiled at the tragedy. Not wanting to go in, but she smirked at the incidence. She let the sun set. Looking straight ahead, a time that was begone. The memories that had accumulated, began to sink with the setting sun, into nothingness. The lurking tears had garnered audacity to fight their departure. They remained quiet and clinging onto her iris. A hand slid inside the satchel. Removed the contents tied in a brown jute bag. She mumbled something. Unclear. You could have heard it if you were closer. But somethings are meant to be censored. She took the little jute bag, kept the satchel on the side. Let the bag hang from her hand, swung it in one shot for leverage, and with all that might, threw it right ahead at the incoming wave. The bag flung itself, upturning its contents. She saw it slump and see the blop it made in water. Her work was done. She dusted her hands. And walked ahead, without turning back. The Gateway watched her go.