Her hands were covered in pieces of loose string tie in a chaotic pattern, and she was wearing a simple blue shirt, and trousers; the uniforms of St Angela’s College For The Mentally Unstable. I remembered how her hair had been long, a light shade of brown and silky --I had wanted to bury myself forever in them and how her eyes had been still azure pools that lingered in my dreams. But now I look at the shadow of what she used to be and I feel myself flinching. I see myself swallowing my disgust when she turns around and touches me, placing her marred hands on my shoulder or my knee.
I’m the worst.
I remembered the way I said our love would last forever, and that the stars, sky, and moon shone brightly only when she was near. I remember when I first saw the scars: It was a summer afternoon, Friday the 20th of November to be exact and it was raining. Not the uncomfortable cold, and dreary rain but the kind of rain that one looks forward to. The rain that falls in the middle of uncontrollable heat, and each drop feels like perfection. She was waiting for me at the park, we’d decided to go on a picnic--or rather she’d decided to go on a picnic and dragged me along.
I stumbled on the footpaths, and fumbled as tree branches whipped me as I tried to keep up with her pace. At that moment I remembered why I hated trees, and nature in general and wondered why she gave a damn about it all. We reached the picnic area, falling into a comfortable silence as we unpacked the basket. Then we started to talk: about school, about the future, about home, about us when she unravelled the bombshell unknowingly.
For me the moment goes in slow motion, when she took off her jumper complaining about the heat and travelling up her arms were cuts, some fresh, some healing. My eyes are fixated on the sandwiches but by the time she remembers to put her jumper on, I’d turned to smile at her --
the moment froze, like God has remembered to install a pause button but not a rewind.
Silence took over, the rustling of the breeze and chittering of animals became even more pronounced. She looked everywhere but at me, and opened her mouth to form words but none came. I stood up and walked away, it was the only thing I could do. I was too much of a coward to talk, to help, I couldn’t be the hypocrite. I had no moral standing.
---
So I ran from her, and now sitting in the padded cell with this girl in front of me a shattered China doll held together by crazy glue watching her toy with the string on her fingers. I wish I hasn't been such a coward.
Spoiler
This is all off the top of my head, and hasn't really been edited yet. Oh and erm, I'm trying to work on my descriptions. Thanks for reading. Anger 
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