Her lips were blue.
Anya had the prettiest big grey eyes. Grey like the sea she imagined was outside her window. Wide eyes, like she had never seen any injustice or horror. So pretty.
Blue like her veins.
She had the prettiest little doll's face, slender and a lovely shade of ivory. The lovely thin lips that she wore in a delighted smile, even when she hurt. Loveliest little rose petal mouth. So lovely.
Like a broken bird.
Her body was thin and fragile looking, so frail and dainty. Small hands with slender fingers, long thin legs. An aura of gay childlike innocence hung around her, drawing them in like moths to the pale light of the moon. So attractive.
Silhouetted.
Her light was damned to the confines of a grey world, where her world was hurt. Those grey eyes had seen her mother's blood on her father's hands.
The horror.
Her porcelain face had been touched by so many strange hands, taking away the smile on her pretty lips.
She's escaped.
Her body had been beaten and broken and used like a toy by too many blackened souls.
The light is out.
Now she hangs by the window, rendered to a profile, lips as blue as the calm ocean she now bathes in.
Stolen innocence.
Poor Anya. She was so pretty. So pretty.