So her situation seemed. The same. Repetition. Habits. A. B. C. Rinse, lather, repeat.
On the surface, it seemed pleasant enough. Good job, nice friends, pretty hair, big house. Successful in all the ways which matter.
Like electricity, fizzing under the surface. Running through the blue veins visible under her translucent skin, burning so intensely she wondered how on earth people didn’t see it, didn’t stare in wonder or cower back at the bright, burning electricity rushing through her.
Like when you put a jumper on too fast over dry hair, and it takes on a life of it’s own, standing in every different direction, never to be tamed or calmed or brushed into submission. Refusing to be smoothed into the sleek style which created a uniform.
Like a shock which makes you start and jolt and pull back. One you never see coming, which leaves you surprised, eyebrows raised, mouth open.
And still, even now, they wonder why she left.
This post is a response to the Daily Post prompt: Static