Roses-for-Clementine

An untold story may lie dead for many years. Until its pages are yellowed and torn and its melody, bittersweet with forgotten lyrics.
It will listen to other's tales in time; always with a sewn up lip, never asked its own in return. It mights be left on a darkened shelf, pitied by those passing by; or even, simply ink that paper never meets; a scrunched up ball of paper, unwanted, still wrong.
We do not speak of stories such as these. Nobody questions the reason behind our silence; we do as we're told, not daring to step a toe out of line. Those that do ... well, they become the next untold story, the 'forgotten' name, the loose threads just waiting for someone to tie them back together, but no one ever does. We do not dare.

No body ever asks: What ever happened to poor little Clementine Gray?
That pale face; those dark orange eyes; the sweet and sickly hum to her voice as she spoke of the fairies. Who wears her cherry red dress and carries her yellow bag now? Who sleeps between her sheets at night when it's cold, snuggling into her one-eyed doll she spoke to often? Whose fingers turn the pages of her stories? The pages whithered with abondonement; the absence of their authoress, breathing life into the drawings.
Fairy dust, she used to call it. That's what made the pictures move, that's what made her tales come to life before your very eyes. People didn't want to know, didn't want to listen to her stories.

[ The girl's name Clementine : meaning is "merciful". First used in the 19th century. There is a well-known song called "My Darling Clementine". ]

Merciful. Yes she was - very. Too merciful. So merciful it bit back and burnt her heart black, shrivelled her skin and whithered those dark orange eyes. Bitter chocolate. So merciful her smile was ripped off her face and replaced with knowing. Knowing smells like parma violets - to know is a terrible thing. Merciiful knowing kills; no, worse than kills, it destroys people.