Lucille was a pretty girl, with milky skin, glassy grey eyes that help no life, cascading ebony hair that tickled the hollows of her elbows when she walked. Lucille wasn't like many people even from the day she was born. Contradictory to many infants, she didn't scream. She quite liked being out of a pit of despair, filled with tampered heroin and cheap vodka.

Lucille started hearing voices at the age of seven. She did see things though. Like when she looked in the mirror she saw Priscilla and Peter on either sides of her. It was normal to always feel a ghostly presence next to her side. She always felt a guiding hand pull her in directions if she got lost.

Lucilles story is haunting yet helpful. It will give you a quick glance through the looking glass to the “other side”. Where things aren't quite as they seem, and shadows talk back and  trip you if they see the ghost of a smile on your lips. Lucille was born into a family with blood thick with heroin, and money as slimy and foul as the foam gracing the corner of blood thirsty lips. She was what many people would call trailer trash, with no hope of a future and dreams of teen pregnancy.

That is just what she did. Lucille got pregnant at the wee age of seventeen with her first offspring Jamison. Her pregnancy was pure hell. She would barely sleep in fear of smashing or strangling her unborn child even though Jami laid peaceful in her uterus with little to no worries about what the future held for his fragile body. Lucille thought she could hear her child screaming and scratching at the interior walls of her uterus. And every time she fell to her knees in shame or defeat she could feel the tiny bones of her unborn child snapping like twigs under the pressure of her feather-like stature. Despite the immense psychological pain that Lucille was enduring Jami welcomed the world with bright eyes full of wonder.

In the eyes of Lucille and the ever curious eyes of the maternity nurses, Jamison was the most beautiful infant to ever grace this Earth. A small tuft of raven hair perched on the flat of his dainty head. Little silver orbs reflected the serenity of the moment with pure curiosity and exhilaration that isn't common with infants. Jamison had the tiniest lips that didn't even utter a sound. He was the baby every mother dreamed of having. Passers by would smile at his simple giggles while his mother begrudgingly trudged down the sidewalk on her way home. Jamison’s bright attitude was not liked by his young and inexperienced mother. It seemed as though every word his mother mumbled to him was the sole reason he was alive Jamison couldn't notice that what he was laughing at would be the reason he would cry.

When Jamison was born Lucille made a promise to herself that she would make sure he had the best life a little boy could possibly ask for. He was always going to stay her little sunshine with rays of happiness radiating off of his petite body making every stranger take a second look and even smile back. But with every joyous word that Jamison stupidly garbled Lucille found it harder and harder to keep her bonds close to her clueless child.

Because of the chilling words Lucille had heard inside her head her entire life she became distant. For example when she was in a solitary room talking to one single person she would distance herself. Her eyes would ice over, her gaze became third worldly, and she would speak in muffles that were incomprehensible. Her eyes, despite being iced over, would dart back and forth in a feverish manner. At home she also became violent. The girl that was once petite in stature and attitude finally ceased her ticking. She was a pipe bomb ready to release all her pent up hatred. When Lucille finally blew up she obliterated everything in her wake.

Like every natural disaster nothing is left not even the most prized possessions. The ones you hold dear to your heart; they are all gone. Gone with not even a trace of what they once were. Smashed to pieces and burnt to a shriveled artifact.

Lucille, in a fit of rage and delirium, began ransacking her dingy trailer, she smashed the measly amount of “family” pictures that she had on a crumbling wall, threw chairs or piece of bug infested furniture in a barricade in the middle of the house. Against her will, Lucille dragged Jamison by his miniature arm and thrust him onto the barricade. His tiny little voice screaming bloody murder and crying from pain because of being yanked so forcefully. Lucille’s eyes suddenly widen, she noticed a can of gasoline perched precariously on her stove. She grabs the gasoline that was unfortunately sitting in her line of sight and laughs wickedly. She pours the gasoline over the heap of furniture soaking every last piece of wood and cloth, not forgetting to drench her baby despite his cries for help.

Lucille reaches into her jeans pocket and whips out a packet of cigarettes. She carefully sits down on a fortunate chair and sparks up a ghastly looking cigarette. She takes a long drag off the cigarette, now completely out of her mind. When she gets to the butt she whispers in a hollow voice,
“Goodbye, my little sunshine.”