the scent of memory

The smell of my berry perfume makes me sick. I haven't worn it since that night, the night I stood there like a china doll with a smile plastered on my face, wishing I could run out of that place, out into the cold night and scream for eternity. I remember the clacking of shoes against the pavement and the laughter and people singing and all the times someone's fingertips brushed my shoulder as they smiled at me. But the faces blur together. The songs are forgotten and the only thing I can remember clearly is the smell of that berry perfume mingling on my wrists and neck, its tangy musk pulling me down into darkness.