White walls. White, infinite walls.
Boom.
Red.
Every time I try writing about this, you appear right next to me and won’t let me. Your eyes won’t let me. See, it’s pointless in a way. I’m not good enough to describe whatever it was that happened to you. But, boy, it sure is fun to try.
…

The stairs to the upper level seemed endless. You move to your own rhythm, unbothered by the outside perception. You dance to your own tune, finally free to sing what you’ve always wanted to sing. I’ve never openly admitted this, but before I snapped out of whatever curse you had put on me, I really was going to fuck you. You were freaking begging me, and I, always the gentlemen, was only happy to oblige. Maybe you weren’t the only one with the fucked up mind.

White Walls.

For a couple of minutes, you really did had me. But you took too long, the effects of your venom faded into the skies, and common sense took over from there.
You kept on dancing anyway. You kept on singing. It was a hot day, so you decided to continue the show topless, an action that drew a mixed reaction from the audience. By that point, help was on the way.

I wrote this about five months ago. I had comopletely forgot this. I think I was supposed to continue it or something, but I don't remember much about it now.

Her eyes turned red quickly. It wasn’t because of this particular rain of insults; it was probably the accumulation of months and months of verbal abuse. Every time she asks me why I treat her this way I feel like slapping her in the face like she used to do with me. When I was little, after they finished disciplining me I used to yell at them, full of rage, that someday they would pay it back to me, fantasizing that one day they would be in the direst of needs and come to me for help.

I can picture it even now, me just squashing them like rats. My family is funny that way because, you may read this and assume I had an unhappy childhood, but you would be wrong. In fact, I was a very happy kid. Most of my relatives will tell you that I was always angry or bitter, and yeah, some of that is true, but that’s because I couldn’t stand most of my relatives at that age. But I never really questioned anything. I assumed that everyone grew up like this, in the bubble of the family, where the dirty laundry is washed at home.

Anyway, back to dinner. She grabs a napkin to wipe the tears. My father stays quiet. My sister, well, I don’t think she has even realized that she is on the breaking point. But she quickly composes herself, resolute on not giving me this little victory.

Bitch.