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Cut Her Strings

 Each heel, snap. 

The models walk in circles in Azure’s daydream. Each of them wears a different color dress, covered in sparkles that are sewn by hand but don’t look like that from far away. Their heels, too high to be considered comfortable, are labeled in black marker along the sides with words like *freedom* and *trust.*

One by one, the heels snap off. The models tumble to the ground, their ankles twisting at unnatural angles as they fall. 

*peaceful.* Snap.

*Support.* Snap.

One of the models in the pile, all limbs and a sky-blue dress, is bleeding from places that she should not be. The trail of blood flows down her throat in a scarlet line, as the people around her scream and yell at the models to leave. 

To get up, as if they are responsible for the cracking of their heels and the breaking of their trust in people who were supposed to assist in instances of injury. 

Bring ice packs, not indifference. 

The model in the blue dress is lifted into the air, her body dangling like a limp puppet. Placed in the back of a buggy, she covered in a thick tarp before being wheeled away. Murmurs follow her body, connected by some invisible string. 

Azure’s parents, who were her greatest supporters in her endeavors since she was born. Their words follow the model’s limp body as it’s carried off the stage. 

Nobody will want her if they find out. All of the money, it’ll be gone.

Azure’s eyes open from the daydream, induced by the morphine she was given to stop her body from convulsing. The hospital room is empty of people. 

The doctors say that she will most likely never walk again, because she did not receive help until the damage was beyond repair. 

Her parents aren’t there. They abandoned her despite their claims.

She cries.

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