Meaningless

Her icy stare cut right through him. He shifted a bit in the seat he was in, trying his best to look away. He didn’t feel much, but he could feel guilt.

One of the many perks of his poor decisions.

She took a deep breath in, picking up an old photo-frame that held a picture of her from eight years ago.

“Why did you do it?”

Inhaling sharply, he turned his head away completely, crossing his arms over his chest. His chair croaked in discomfort. He slid further and further into his hoodie.

She continued staring at the photo, crumpled up and smoothed back out behind the glass. Attempting to glance back at him, she looked around the room for anything else that could have told her why. Everything in the room held a story, a story she was blissfully ignorant about but aware of nonetheless. There was scrap metal covering over lights and knick-knacks that looked like they had been through a war. Blankets that had holes cut out to repair clothing. A curtain that was burnt at the edges, picture frames that had been silenced, the photos facing down to stop their voices. And drawings, thousands of drawings, all vaguely trying to explain the same thing, but it had been so long she couldn’t understand. At one point she knew, she had known the stories of everything in this room.

She really didn’t see the point of it now, she had been gone for so long. And really, she was still gone. She slowly slid down the wall. The hollowness of herself was causing her to cave in. This reality wasn’t hers anymore, it was somebody else’s. She was ripped from it, and he had taken a stapler and tried to put her back in.

She put her face in her hands, this reality was paper thin. She might as well be fake. A small voice slipped from her.

“Why didn’t you just leave me dead?”