The District of Never Die

     "I wouldn't want to be able to see through walls." Ana said, matter-of-factly. "That's an invasion of privacy."
     "Nuh-uh! It's pretty cool! You can see all the people and what they're doing!"
   "Yeah, exactly. What if you were showering and Superman happened to come by and look through the wall?"
     "Superman's not gay, he wouldn't do that." Andrew looked towards his Superman figure next to the dresser. It was right outside the bathroom door.
     "Well then I guess I better start showering with clothes on if you get the power to see through walls."
     "Eeew, like I'd want to see you naked anyways!" Andrew stuck his tongue out at the thought. "And besides, if Superman can see through walls, why couldn't he see through cloth?"
     "Well did you ever read about Superman seeing through clothes? No, that can't happen." Ana followed the thought through her head as it lead to a new conclusion. "I guess everyone should just start making their houses out of cloth then."
     Andrew just glanced at his sister from the corner of his eyes before snorting and walking out.


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OH JUNK, ANDREW IS ANA'S BROTHER! I KNEW IT!
lulz, anyways, yes, if you ever see Superman around, make sure you're not showering or your house is made of cloth. Besides, he can only see through walls, so who's to say he can see through floors and ceilings? Yes, I know, I'm taking that power rather literally, but that's the point ;D lol
And there was no prompt for this one, it was just brought up in one of my random trains of thought as I was thinking about how my shower is right next to the dorm hall way.

     At the other end of the street there's a girl and whenever I see her, she's crying. She waits till her parents leave every morning, watching and waving from her upstairs window. When their expensive little cars turn the corner out of sight, she leaves her window and reappears on the roof. She spreads out and stares at the clouds, tears streaming down her face.
     I sometimes wonder why she cries. Why she doesn't let anyone else see her, not even her parents. She just cries out there all alone, staring at nothing. And other times I find myself crying with her. She just looks so miserable out there, I want to comfort her. But if I even start to say kind words, she'd know I was watching. I've been intruding in her private world and I know it's wrong, but part of me can't stop. She intrigues me, her pain intrigues me, and her beauty captivates me.
     I remember one day I walked down toward her house, making it look like I was taking a walk, keeping her in my peripheral vision. When I came close to the end of the road, she bolted through the open window, her hands clutching at the tears on her face, hiding them in her fingers until I passed. When I got back to my house, she still wasn't on the roof again. I watched as she stuck her head out the window, peering down the road with bloodshot eyes, only to swivel around back into the house as the sound of tires on the driveway reached her alert ears.
     Yesterday she had a picture with her. My binoculars weren't strong enough to pick out the faces but it looked like a couple. She held it above her head and cried. She stared at the people, their smiles and untouchable happiness and she cried.
     It was Autumn and the wind was strong, especially above the houses. A gust of wind fluttered the picture around in her hands and she gave the wind what it wanted. She watched the picture float away and cried. I didn't know if she was crying about the loss of the picture, but it didn't look like it. She just cried.
     Sometimes I wondered if she was ever going to run out of tears, she cried so much. It was an endless supply of salt water emotion and she seemed to control it. Or maybe she wasn't controlling it. Maybe that's why she cried so much, because she couldn't control it.
     I asked my mother about the family one day. She said her parents were wealthy but were always at work. She said the girl was always home alone. I knew that. But what my mother didn't know, what no one knew but me, was that the girl cried.
     It was my secret. It was her secret. It was ours and she didn't even know it.
     One day I wrote a letter to the girl. I asked her why she cried. I asked if the sky comforted her, if the roof ever got too hot, if the wind ever turned her cheeks pink with their fury. I told her about her pain. I told her what I knew. I told her the story of my imagination. I told her of how her prince charming had found her, loved her and left her. I told her of how she followed him. I told her of her defeat at the hands of another woman. And I told her of how she felt afterwards. I told her about all the tears she cried and I told her about the sky, how the blue ocean above was and how the clouds were so fluffy and white. I told her about her hero, the one to save her from her sadness. And I told her about me.
     At the other end of the street there's a girl, and whenever I see her, she's crying. She waits till her parents leave every morning, watching and waving from her upstairs window. When their expensive little cars turn the corner out of sight, she leaves her window and reappears on the roof. She spreads out and stares at the clouds, tears streaming down her face. And as she cries, she holds my letter and smiles.