P.S: I know this is just the prologue - I am about to do some more reviewing right now so that I may post chaper one as well - I wasn't able to post them together because of the character limit (My chapter are long - the book is only going to have 10 chapters) Hopefully by the time you read this, Chapter one will also be up. Finally, please review the prologue and Chapter one together in the review section for Chapter 1. Save this section for questions and answers about the book as a whole, because I suppose we need some kind of home page. Thank you again!
She was only fourteen, you see. That's why she survived it – or maybe something in her died that was going to kill her. No, she has green eyes – she was never going to die in the first place. It wasn't even that hard, according to her. It was nothing, and everything at the same time. Up to this day, she isn't entirely sure what it was. All she knows is that she's glad her eyes are green, because nobody else's were even though they liked to pretend; but she loves them anyway.
She loves them very much actually.
Regardless of eye colour, this is the story of her life. But I must show it to you through her irises as well as her pupils, so it's hardly regardless, is it?
You may think her odd, sitting here in the back of this café, painting on her canvas, whispering her deepst secrets to the paint as it dries into the crevices. But you must understand, my dear canvas, that the job of a canvas is to be a blank window into life. Every bump is the face of one person reaching out to touch the paint with their many glazed eyes.
She is an artist. State the obvious. And she lives in a little café in central London on Maison Street – off of Regents Street. Her mother used to say that it meant their café was like a home to the world, because 'maison' is the French for 'house'. Haha – they all used to call her Mama, even the customers. Mama was quite young though, only about thirty three. And Rachel was fourteen...yes.
That's when it all changed for her.
And now, changed from what? You may ask, well, my green canvas, she is going to make a facial portrait of her heart; and when this green has dried well, I will shock you with the black of her hair and the blue and red of her scrunchie. Then you will understand.
But for now, my child, because her fire has begun to rain out like an emerald river onto the rose bushes, she shall tell those bumps on the canvas what they are and always will be: green.
