It was an outburst. It was a huge mess. It was nothing I ever expected. It was screaming and pinpointing and shedding pointless tears. It was anger beyond comprehension. It was pain beyond intension. It was perhaps damage beyond repair. It was all wrong.
And now she’s there, slouched, waiting for what will happen next. She knew all along she should’ve just shut up. She was just pissed off. That was where everything started from. They were both bound to explode. She pulled the trigger.
She thinks of what will be. She is desperate of a reason. She knows she has to have one. At least something to say. Or she may just deal with questions perhaps she still cannot answer even if she has something to justify what she did. She’s dead. And she’s perfectly aware.
The smell of what could have been dinner plays under her nose. She remembers what minutes ago were. Her eyes burn but she does not give in. She tries to digress but the thought of fixing her life nudges. Her eyes burn again as the mere thought laughs at her. She has to make a choice.
I’m scared.
She musters all her courage, takes a deep breathe and chooses to do what at least her mind can tell is right. But what difference does that make? How does one measure enough?
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