She sat on the park bench; Central Park, New York, but she is lost. How did the ones before her achieve the greatest gift, life? She took a breath and stared. To him she was beautiful, but why does he feel angry at her as a being? Did he see her at the mill? She saw him. Does he see that Mother Nature herself rejects her? She is only one step away from leaving this divine fire, but is that blasphemy, to go against her creator? She failed her last attempt two nights ago and she already knew that her creator had abandoned her, with absolutely no purpose what so ever. She reached in her purse and pulled out a vial of purple liquid, she couldn’t feel the corks texture on her fingers as she threw it to the ground. Her solidarity had completed her existence, which made the sorrow she felt grow deeper, for she couldn’t call her being a life. She was never living, never alive. She never should have been created. She looked up at the trees moving in the wind but she knew why she couldn’t feel it against her skin. Her sorrow, deeper still, made her shed a tear. She closed her eyes and put the vial to her lips. As the liquid poured into her mouth, she felt the bench beneath her start to crumble, nature crying at her being. She failed and the thoughts of her entire existence flooded her sleeping mind. She ached all over where she had been put together; the fire was eating away at her. She clutched the bench, crumbling in her hands as she drew her final ending breath.
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