An all-consuming feeling forms in my stomach, a feeling that’s under my skin now. That slow, crawling pressure in my ribs, pressing tighter with every breath.
My friends say I should work on my temper. But I don’t think they understand what they’re asking.
As if it’s a retrievable dog I can whistle back into its cage.
You don’tmanagesomething like this.
You don’t tame a goddamn forest fire.
It’s hard to hold onto who you are when the beast never cared. It ripped me apart, shred by shred, until I was raw. Until I was hollow. It crawled inside, took the empty spaces and filled it with blind rage. When it spoke, it used my voice. When it destroyed, it used my hands.
And I let it, because I didn’t know how to make it stop.
Things like that never truly leave you. I know for a fact that my flames don’t ever truly leave me. They never will. I know that because I always feel them.
Dimmed sometimes, sure. But still there.
But on days like this, with her standing there reminding me of everything I’ve lost, I can feel them pressing against my ribs, coiling around my lungs like they’re trying to suffocate me. Trying to drag me away from myself.
Still. I’m not sure what it is I feel, watching her like this.
Interest? Perhaps.
Perhaps not. Hard to tell.
Disgust? At the situation, maybe. Or at her for not fighting harder. Or at myself fornot looking away.
There’s something there, though. She’s always been hard to pin down. Quiet, but not shy. Hurt, but soft despite it all. Always carrying something but never asking anyone else to hold it.
It’s positively infuriating.
And yet—and yet, it’s a feeling I’m used to. One I’m comfortable with.
Aside from that, I don’t feel much of anything at all. In fact, lately, I’ve suffered with immense boredom.
Lately, everything bores me—especially people. I’ve come to the conclusion that people simply aren’t worth my time. Most of them are disappointments, and honestly, I don’t have the patience for illusions anymore.
They bore me because they’re all the same. Pretenders. Cowards.
I find it all… tedious.
Everyone’s carrying their own monster, some just wear theirs better than others. Some let it devour them entirely. Maybe that’s what happened to me. Or maybe I’m just tired of pretending the world isn’t exactly what it is. Or at least, the people in it.
People are the cruellest creatures; I realized that a long time ago. We’re capable of immense kindness, and unfathomable cruelty. We can be so much more than what we already are, butwe rarely choose to be. Because people like being comfortable, and they like feeling stable. Most of them aren’t willing to give that up, even for the chance of a fairer world.
Humans would much rather build walls than bridges, because walls feel safer. But a wall can never save you, it only locks you inside with your own rot.
That’s why we fail, and why we’ll continue to do so.
There is no hope for us. No redemption.
It’s almost laughable and extremely irritating how no one seems to understand what a contradiction humanity is. A species apparently too clever to be kind and too proud to admit its own sickness.
We are all diseased. We are all animals. Animals wearing suits.
At least I’m self-aware. I know exactly what I am.
I thought I knew what Adeline was too. From the second my father told me about her when I was fifteen, I knew I hated her. The moment I looked into her eyes three years ago, I thought I had that girl figured out—thought I knew everything about her and her family.
