They came in transparent perfections, trusting the earth to catch them in their fall from heaven. Most were bound to be disappointed, however, for concrete was not kind and sent them bouncing back in haphazard jerks.

So, when she stooped and scooped a handful of them and glared at the infinite reflections glaring back at her, she knew they were like her. The idea was disgusting.

For she, too, was perfection, trusting, falling, then disappointed.

And the spheres of ice puddled in her palms and strove to be a mirror pointed at the sky. Their stories were one and the same.

For she, too, looked up at the sky, empty, formless and dying to at least reflect the glory of heaven.

She flung what’s left of the hail into the mud, the pair of horizontal scars lining her shoulder blades somehow became a fresh wound in the icy air, throbbing, stabbing, screaming.


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