"It’s a great big white world
And we are drained of the colours
We used to love ourselves
We used to love one another"
-- Great Big White World, Marilyn Manson

  The girl had eyes that were as black as death. Her eyes, like a black hole, sucked in every ounce of light, and killed every inch of hope.
  Eyes of despair.

  Her name was Marilyn, which was adopted from Marilyn Monroe, given that she had been a clockwork toy, a clockwork toy designed to be chewed upon by those who'd crawled out of the woodwork into her life.
  She was born in the month of March, a Pisces. She'd believed in horoscopes, mainly because she felt that the stereotypes actually did apply to people like her.
  Her eyes were dark, and they were filled with dreams.

  She was a doll.
  People didn't understand that dolls had feelings.
  "They're made of cotton," They'd say, "And cotton doesn't have feelings."
  Her sad eyes and stitched mouth begged for help when they flung her across the room. She was screaming with voiceless agony as she sailed through the air and landed onto the cold, hard floor.
  Her smile was stitched out of wounds, and her eyes were crystals of tears.

  She was a fish.
  The water was warm. The smaller, brighter fishes were cluttered in swarms as they cuddled together at the bottom.
  "She's dying," Whispered one.
  "What a spectacle," Whispered the other.
  She could hear their fascinated sighs coming from below, even as she was floating… Upwards.
  She was floating towards the surface of the water, thin lines of black blood trailing after her. Her lips were bloated and hollowed out as they leaked dark wax that sailed through the water. Her belly swelled until it was ready to burst, and she floated higher still, until the air embraced her.

  She was a dove.
  The pigeons had fluffed up their feathers and had flown across the bridge, from a part of the sky to the other. She sat there, a wing broken, and her beak clogged with oil.
  "Help me," She cried.
  The pigeons glanced down at her.
  "What a pity," They said, and they chattered amongst themselves as they flew away.
  The sky overhead seemed to spiral, and then, darkness seemed to embrace her. She'd have liked to think that it was death.

  Marilyn thought herself to be like Marilyn Monroe. Her dreams were killed by the harsh reality, and indifference was prevalent among those who surrounded her.
  She still remembered the day when she wished that someone, anyone, would embrace her with open arms and she would finally be safe to dream. But their eyes, being so cold, were like spears of ice, and they pierced through her.
  They pierced through each and every one of her dreams, and gradually, when all of them were killed, her eyes were no longer dark and filled with dreams.
  She had eyes that were as black as despair. Her eyes, like a black hole, sucked in every ounce of light, and killed every inch of hope.
  That girl… I'd known her since a long time ago.
  That girl was me.
  And as I lived my life by the name of Marilyn, I understood truly that those eyes were indeed, eyes of despair.

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