The little girl ran. It didn't make her exhausted. It didn't make her happy, either. Rain poured out of the sky, like blood out of a million wounds, like the tears that ran down her cheeks. She didn't know where she was going, what would happen to her, but she didn't care.

What world did she live in? Nobody cared for her. At school they'd made fun of her. Tugging her hair, calling her names, throwing her stuff into the bin. Scratching her cheeks, laughing at her. One or two of them told her she should not let the others do all that to her, acting kind and friendly. But she didn't believe their masquerade. No, even though they were good at acting. She'd told her parents, once, and they'd gone to her teacher. They'd talked, oh yes, talked for hours, and then talked to the other kids' parents.

But nobody believed her. None of the parents hadbelieved that their children would do such things, and slowly her own parents had started to doubt in her, too.

Cold wind tugged her wet clothes as she stumbled over roots, as thorns scratched her legs. The world had broken apart for that little girl. She didn't want to go home, back to all these persons who called her a liar. They hadn't believed her when she'd told them about her pain, they hadn't been there when the voices had come to her when she lay alone in the darkness. The voices, telling her about what she could do to all the others, how she could make them suffer for what they'd done.

The voicesd hadn't been cruel, however. They'd told her that the world was wrong, that they just didn't want to help her. That is was fun for them to watch her suffer. And she'd been so dumb as to believe them.

She'd said terrible things, done terrible things. Dreamed and thought things that made her wake up in the night filled with horror and fear, and that fierce anger.

She could still see their faces right in front of her, faces of those who said they loved her, faces of those who made fun of her. What had she done?

Who was that little girl? And where had she gone? Today, only a cold stone next to the road reminds of her existance. That, and the memories that come back in every rainy night. If you go there, sit down, and listen closely, she could come to you, and tell you about what happened to her. And if you ever happen to hear the voices, ask them about her if you want them to be silent...

________

So. That's just some writing I had to do, one of the many pictures that come up when listening to special songs.

Don't worry, she (in the story) has nothing to do with my own story so far. I don't know what happened to her, in the end.

BTW, had a maths test today. =|

...I'm already half-way done with writing chapter 3 of my epic!