Hanging by the aching branch of a tree was a young girl by the name of Ellis Waters, strands of her blonde hair entangled amongst leaves. Surely the way I am intended to go, Ellis had thought as steady hands threaded a loop in rope she had found lying in her father’s shed. For one moment, Ellis had looked at the circle of rope, questioning what was soon to take place in her back garden, for within these threads ran Ellis’ life. If she jumped they would tighten, enclosing all fourteen years in but a heartbeat. Moments before her death, she had panicked, wondering if perhaps she were making a mistake. In this moment of slight panic, Ellis’ foot slipped on a loose strip of bark and so she swung from the very tree her father had built a rope swing on when she was but a child. When she stopped swinging, all became still. Feet hovered perhaps three metres above the ground, one foot dripping blood from her slip on the branch, the other simply pointing towards the dead grass beneath the tree. Poor Ellis’ porcelain face had become blotchy, her lips limp. Her neck bruised and swollen, dear Ellis was not a pretty sight at all. Not the poetic death she had hope for, where she would be found in a flowing white dress, resembling the angels that had taken her mother when she was so young. Rather than sympathetic faces, there would be disgusted ones, as the pungent scent of rising acids became overwhelming, not even her father being able to cry over her body. No, dearest Ellis, instead professionals would be paid to take away the bruised and swollen body, before rushing off to another home to collect another dead body, to cut down another girl from another tree in another white dress.
Oh Ellis, not the death you had hoped for at all, was it? Such a shame, a terrible shame.
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