She hid beneath her scarf. Pulling it over her eyebrows she hid herself from the world. 
He took her color. He beat it out of her. He cursed it out of her.
Black was her color of choice. Black clothes, and a black scarf. As if she wanted to live in perpetual shadow. Maybe then he wouldn’t see her. Wouldn’t tell her how fat or hideous she was. Wouldn’t remind her that she would end up a failure. 
She pulled out the razor. 
She wouldn’t let himwin. She took control. She exhaled. She pulled the razor along. 
Red was the color that gleamed on her arm. Red blood. Red lines. 
He would never see those lines. They were only for her eyes. 
Around her there was chaos. Swirling colors of hate. No one remembered to check the shadows to see if she was still there. No one would notice the red hidden amongst the black. 
Her imagination was shattered,  left laying in the ruin of her family  and the pieces of her childhood. She lived in her books. It was easier to live in the imagination of others. They brought momentary color to her world.
Spewing blackness over her, he tore her books. He ripped her solace from her bloodied hands. 
She pulled out the razor. She exhaled. She pulled the razor along.

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