Morning in Brandenburg, Virginia

     Morning sunlight painted the bleached boards of the vast loft’s floor a brilliant blonde, nearly as pale as the tousled hair nestled on the pillow. The warmth crept silently across the floor, almost stalking the form huddled beneath a heap of quilts. When gold light touched the glimpse of powder-white skin, eyelids lifted sluggishly, and Briar Dallas groaned. A brief, fierce struggle ensued, with Briar coming out the victor, the heavy quilts shoved to one side as she swung her bone-thin legs over the side of the bed.

     The black t-shirt she slept in could easily have been a full-length gown, judging by the way it hung on her thin form. Briar rose to her feet, wobbling unsteadily, and pushed blonde hair out of her black-smudged eyes. Most Goths would have needed extra eyeliner to get those perfect dark circles, but Briar, looking sleepily at the mirror across the loft, thought wryly that she’d been designed to be Gothic. Blonde hair, bleached a paler shade, stood out in a sleep-induced halo, framing her finely drawn face perfectly. Her thin lips were faintly blue, as were her toes and fingertips, but such a thing was typical for the dangerously thin girl. In her early twenties, and standing nearly five foot six, she barely tilted the scales at eighty-nine pounds. Every bone was clearly visible, her collarbones standing out with pencil-like clarity, even through the voluminous shirt, stolen from one Jonas Foster. She shuffled across the bare boards of her loft, towards the tiny kitchenette, looking a bit more perky. It wasn’t often that Briar actually felt hungry, and when she did, it took no nudging for her to sate that gnawing creature in her belly.

     The loft was a pleasant place, especially at the dawning and ending of the day. The high windows softened the light, and the angled roof provided the perfect amount of illumination for Briar’s work. For indeed, this skinny girl was an artist of superb caliber. Sheets draped her unfinished sculptures, and stacks of canvases were set in orderly rows at the far end of the loft. Only a few sketches were visible, a couple of them framed, and from one, a sweet-eyed angel smiled kindly at the girl currently poking through her nearly empty fridge. The bed pushed against one corner was perpetually unmade, and scattered with pillows, throw pillows and rumpled covers. Comics sat in stacks, a few specially chosen ones framed: an X-Man comic with a ferocious Wolverine, one curious comic titled "Heart of Conrad and the Velociraptor Women," and a couple of Star Trek comics with elaborate aliens. Cups sat on every conceivable surface, and overflowing ashtrays shared space with black nail polish bottles. Heavy black boots, clanking with bat-shaped buckles, sat by a backpack which had seen better centuries. All in all, it was a comfortable home, reflective of the owner, and had a beautiful view of Brandenburg’s Courthouse District.

     Briar sat at her tiny card table, nudging ashtray and newspapers aside, and began chewing her cereal slowly. Her eyes were unfocused, and as she ate, she sketched on a scrap of notebook paper, almost unconsciously. Artwork was Briar’s air, light, wonder and life, and it came to her constantly, even when she didn’t think of it. Indeed, the rest of her brief morning was boring routine: getting dressed, washing her very few dishes, loading her (black) backpack for the day, checking her (black) cell phone for messages, putting on her (black) lipstick and picking up her rarely used (black) skateboard. It was a normal day, a pleasant day…and for Briar Dallas, a treasured day.

     For this was not how it had always been, nor was this how it began.