Phoenix Maplewood pieces of eight

she was oblivious to his eye, for a time.
the comments met her ears but didn't land in any emotional way. she didn't feel as connected to her life as she should at this age, nor to her body, which had become more of an annoyance than anything — something to feed and water and care for, when she didn't often have the desire.
indra grew bored of the skull with its crooked grin.
i ain't scared of it, she admitted; the bones, or the concept of death.
figure i beat it enough times by now, but if it gets me, it gets me.
she glances his way, emptily.
y'know? — but she doubted he understood with any depth how jaded she really was, given all she'd been through and repressed.