All he sees are the reeds whispering soft, sweet, humming, gentle words while his parents shout loudly, naughtily, I TOLD YOU THIS AND I TOLD YOU THAT. Harsh, chemical, acidic hatred that hurls itself at each other every day as she lies on the soft grass. Their words are melting the sugar from the bare house, cut out like a candy cane. “Because we're poor, honey, we're filthy poor, and you and your new shoes aren't helping us.” Money. It always comes back to money. Julia doesn't have a pot of gold or a rainbow, but she wants one so she can dump it on her parents, dump it on herself, and be content. She is a dandelion in their lives. Make a wish and she will fly away to make it come true, but try as she might, there is no money her young self can find. No peace for those who seek. She's tired. Adrift. A scream shatters her brief, thin calm into a million pieces, and when it stitches itself together, the edges are jagged, sharp, more fragile than before but stuck inside her, clawing at the blood and pushing in, clear wisdom straight to the heart . It hurts. It is rooted in its pulsating artery. I'm growing up, I'm leaving. I will never be poor again.~Julia Douglass is at the docks with a friend, Caroline Conway. Caroline, with her messy autumn hair and skin as pale as parchment. Caroline, with sweet words and a kind soul. Caroline is explaining to her how this guy exists, and he's really sweet but very lonely because he lived in the country for a while. He's homeschooled, doesn't know anyone, and no one really wants to know him. Julia only listens to one word. “And he's quite rich, the only son of two businessmen, and…” Rich. She's been nursing that wound for a long, long time, letting it grow and grow until each sunset represents......the center of the card...a sound to add to her swing, but she's transfixed by something, stumbles into forward and falls onto the soft, soggy ground. A miserable smell fills the air. Julia doesn't look, but she hears him vomiting non-stop into the metal garbage cans, feels him fall completely to the ground next to her. He stares at her worriedly and she stares at him. A tender moment. Suddenly his eyes turn, refocus and he's on his feet, staggering backwards, clutching a brick, running away to leave her with glass canes and metal tree trunks and soft earth. Triumphant. He's whimpering now, feeling the bullet and its bloody cut path. Its plaintive moan goes unnoticed, unattended among the singing reeds. Trembling hands come out from under her like molasses and her hands hold blood that glows magenta in the punk light of the glow stick. Still triumphant. She's lying to herself.