She spoke of a gray, gray evening.

Her hair was disheveled, unkempt; her skin scarlet red in the cold, cold air; her eyes sparkling blue, twinkling in the evening sun hidden in the mist.

She spoke of a gray, gray evening.

Rachaelle once told me of a blue skylark, soaring in the skies of Swansea, singing its song of life. She spoke of its voice, melodiously imbuing novelty in her sightless soul, engendering hope and bringing forth a burst of life in the midst of all darkness and obscurities.

Yet now she speaks of a gray, gray evening.

That distant look in her eyes, longing for that love she was denied, ever so forlorn and flustered, tears welling up in her lower eyelids like dams, her brows furrowing at the words that she speak, her heart aggrieved at this despondency she never knew of.

Deplorable. Melancholy. Crestfallen. Miserable.

She was on the stage of Fame for as long as she could remember. Her eyes twinkling to the sight of Popularity, Esteem waving at her, with Reputation bowing down in her presence each time she flaunted Flair.

Her life, free as the blue skylark, singing her song of life. Her eyes oblivious to its surroundings, springing forth obscurities of Darkness approaching. Life was diamonds. Stilettos. Fishnet stockings and pearl necklaces. Glam. Fashion. Deluxe. Limelight. Cameras flicking and flashing at her poise.

But there she was now, wrapped in nothing but modesty and shame. Standing 3 steps away from the door leading to Love, clutching her very last dollar.

Laggardly dragging her stoned feet towards the golden steps, the violent pendulum slowly pounding against her chest impulsively. Her tousled appearance was an abomination in itself, any Press witnessing it would crumble whatever’s left of her world. She looked up into the gray, gray sky, and thought she saw a rainbow, just a sliver.

The sleeping clouds seem to be laughing insidiously at her attempts. Funny, she thought. They seemed benignly passive initially.

Reaching the door of Love, she gathered whatever’s left of her energy, and pounded the golden doorknocker intermittently.

A gust of wind came upon her, sending her shawl off the bones around her neck. There was utter brightness for a moment, a Light so bright that even the sightless Rachaelle fell unto her knees in sheer trepidation.

“You knocked,” was all He said.

Her breath barely escaping her lips, she asked.

“How much…for a touch of love?”

Her legs went numb, and weakened at her expense. Collapsing to hardly a breathe left, she tugged His legs, screaming the desire once again, only this time, soundlessly.

He looked at her, His eyes swollen with sorrow and desolation.

“It’s all already been paid for…”

Her hand shivering and trembling in senility and fear, she lifted up the parchment of currency she had been holding onto for God knows how long towards the He she was kneeling upon. Her heart was pounding with all the surges of energy its got left, with little irregular beats like that of the sound the rain makes.

“It’s all already been paid for…”

You remember her face turning paler by the moment, and her lips dead white.

And her very last breath escaped through her lips, letting go that very dollar she grasped with her dear life, not knowing the Love she so knew she needed.