Fruittella

Once upon there was a lady with hair as beautiful as you can imagine. She'd grow it long just so to cut it every time; she'd make it into wigs for cancer patients. For years this went on and there were many who would hold their head high as they wore the shine, the shine they believed that would bring them back the world. The lady was loved and the hair more so.

Then one day, that was just as close to any normal day as it could be, for each day has it's smiles, the lady saw a strand of pink in her hair. She hid it like the fruit vendor hid the rancid fruit. But with every passing day the fruit turned more spoilt until eventually a good half of her hair was a psychedelic pink. As she thought of donating the hair this time she faced doubt. She was so used to the normality of her standard visits that it made her unsure. As unsure as a poor man at a buffet. She walked in, with a lamination of acquired confidence with denial as its backing force and she gave in the hair.

As expected, the wigs were refused and those who did wear them found isolation not as hard as they would have. The lady's stature shrank and things were no longer the way they were before. She wasn't the loved. The love the lady had for these people waned at faster pace.

There came a time when the lady had no longer cut her hair for decades. She now had the prettiest, most spirited lock of pink hair. She had forgotten about the patients, although they lived nearby, in a hospital, in her head, which had been shut down temporarily due to lack of janitors, nonetheless the patients were still there. Until one fine day a thought struck as does the thought of atheism to a clergyman. She waved it away calling it all that clergyman have been calling their doubts and wrapped the pink guts around her to sleep. The next morning she woke up realizing that denial had turned it's back on her. So the next night she sent an army of men to to fight her daemons. What follows is the aftermath of the skirmish.

One of the men came back. One said that the enemy had it's reasons and only few among it were as strong as her friend to have resisted this temptation, it was their weakness which had invoked the soreness. As the lady listened to the survivor smilingly, another survivor, battered and bruised limped forward. The lady patiently waited for him, all the time an air of self-assuredness captivating her, until the messenger fell to her feet. Gasping for air, half uttering - half mouthing the words he said something which the lady best understood as "This messenger lost an eye, your enemy has pink hair, and it is the prettiest, most spirited lock of pink hair"