Now, as an author, I shan't -understandably - want to describe the hours of pain endured that Wen spent in her room, mourning the loss of her friend, blaming Terry for pushing Valentine I to the water that unfateful day. And, even if you ask, dear reader, I shall hesitate before I make up my mind whether to talk about the guilt our young man felt and, ah, - seemingly all the other needed information. For, you must understand - I have now, for far too long already, been shying away - slowly, shuffling back - from the task that I have - to bring you the news of the dwarf. But now I will speak clearly - write, with tears in my eyes - because I hated it - I hate it still - when a character, so blissfully unaware, suddenly ought to leave their beautiful world behind... however, I write with a full heart, and whilst the souls of these characters continue on to live inside these pages, I will surely keep writing - and try not to spill my coffee, when it comes to that.
So, without further ado - open your eyes. Open them, I say! - and feel your eyes slowly sneaking up Wen's body, thrown on the ground upon which she cried for the loss of Valentine. Relax, as you sit-up on her windowsill - silent and invisible. Now, you shall gaze at her feverently, and do not take your eyes away. She is in a dress.
Yes, ahem, Wen is in a dress (but she ain't going to a funeral)! So look at her dress. It's her green brocade one, which came - comes - no, it came with a ribbon that fitted about her slim waist. Perhaps, Wen was not of the very slender type, with long legs and thin lips and big eyes... for she did not like worship sports, as mentioned earlier, and preferred to spend her time at home - often, reading. Though not skinny, the few curves she had pointed out against her dress, which fell about her hips and ended with a lemon hem, the same tint as the ribbon.
Also, Wen's hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, revealing the few pimples she had at the age of eleven. And earrings - white gold - very small, round hoops, had been studded into her ears. ...But, to comment on the last paragraph, honestly, rather it was hard to pronounce if she looked like a little lady or the mouse nearby, who tentatively sniffed the air, and ran off into a hole in the floor. For Wen was down on the ground, slippers kicked off, dress pulled up to reveal her bare back, and on her stomach she sniffled and frowned.
However, soon hearing footsteps upon the second floor, the girl jumped up and fitted on her slippers, only to be met by the motherly figure she knew so well. Mrs — was in her shell dress of pink, and she wore her hair high up as she gracefully descended to her daughter.
"My little lady," smiled she lovingly. "How sweet you look, with your hair so cunning and satin-smooth!" at that, the mother came close and ran a hand through the very pale strands.
"I don't want to go anywhere," suddenly seethed Wen. "I'd rather stay here and mourn for the loss of my friend, having not much energy till I die also..."
But that was enough to get Mrs. Trulegh rather fired up. "Don't you be such a disobedient brat," growled she. "I brought life to you... who fed you, girl? Hell, who kissed you, calmed you down, made you feel better, washed after you? Turned off the television when you fell asleep on the couch? Why, am I such a bad mother to you that you want to die?? Yeah, as if that is proper! And anyway, I may as well leave myself and never come back, so you realise how life will be without me someday!!"
Guilt rushed through poor Wen. "No, Mum, please don't leave forever! I get it if you want to run away somewhere and find a cowboy and marry him, but you must realise ! - you have Daddy, and me, and Eddy, and maybe even Ksenia... and you had Valentine. She was like a daughter to you, now, I know. Honestly!" And then... "I love you, but right now feel very saddened."
"Oh, my dear!" Half chuckled Mrs. Trulegh, pressing her lips to Wen's cheek and hugging her daughter. "I do have your Father, who is ever so much more handsome than any stupid cowboy, I promise you that!"
"Wow, okay... but, why are we dressed like this? Are we going somewhere, momma?"
"I don't know, honestly... all I got sent is a letter, in slanting writing, with very fancy oil illustrations... and, so I thought, that this "Mister A— something" is a very fine old gentleman, coming to talk to you. He said he would talk... only to you. So, I do not know what is up... but still I got dressed for this occasion..."
"I, really —" But then there were three modest knocks on the door downstairs, and so the two rushed down, in a flurry and a hurry, faces red... Wen opened up, with three bling, short fingers. "Good afternoon, dear old —"
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