sdrawkcab (chapter 1)

Cyanide. It burns up your flesh. Corroding, eating away at your very being. It entices you into agonizing pain. Boiling and bubbling beneath the surface, until �" pop! �" you spill.
That’s what it’s like. Watching these…things… rejoice. Their laughter is a blade buried in my ear. I see them smile, and anger sears my tongue. Their romance makes me gag, but when they fight….when they stare at each other, blankly, coldly, harshly… oh, ‘tis sweet. Not like the frosting on a cake, but like the sauce on the steak. I saunter through the joyous park, reveling in the despair and glowering at the bliss.
The house was just over the brush. Wandering listlessly around the park, I found that if I stood on the edge of the grass I could see directly into the front window. Silhouettes move about behind the heavy curtains. An emaciated figure leans against the wall, worrying a piece of cloth between her fingers. A heavyset boy, closer to a man now, is slumped at the table with his head in his hands. I lean in closer, imagining the smell of dinner burning and the sounds of organized chaos, Father’s evening program blaring from the screen in dissonance with the constant clack of Mother’s knitting needles. What would they do if I walked in there right now? Would they embrace me? Or would they cower?
Stop it. They are not your family. You left them. They are not your family anymore.
It wouldn’t make a difference, anyway. My sister had always been the only thing holding us together; striving to bridge the indescribable gap, carrying the last hope of a broken home even as her face became pinched with worry and her eyes acquired a sadness beyond their years.
She isn’t here to save you anymore.
I turn away. I don’t need saving.
Mother looks sickeningly happy, although her knitting needles are stained with the blood of my sister. It was horrible beauty. Mothers psychotic break of ramped laughter relinquished a slew tears. From my own eyes-it choked me-burned me-sickened me and I relished in my own despair amidst my own vile rage.
Focus. The gorgeous sheen of the needle, dripping intoxicating rust. The terror of its implications. I wanted nothing more than to drive it through her skull.
But would my sister ever have forgiven me? For it was she and she alone who always wished me to be strong.
Strong.
My fingers curl into fists. I've been back to this house every day since she passed. The torture of watching is exquisite.
Watching. Waiting. Weakening.
Sway, stall and swarm. For this is the truest feeling of love? I love to despise this arbitrary emotion. It's grotesque complexity. But it is the bane that I am feeling. It is the savory torture that I endure.
Steady now don't...embrace it this time.
Don't let the beautiful darkness consume you... Although it could never. Strange really, these new feelings of remorse and mourning are so wonderful that I couldn't let my evils have control. But what if I did. What if I let this backwards existence- NO I can't. I won't. But. Why? Why am I feeling this? What am I feeling?
My eyes narrow and my palms sweat as I squeeze them tighter. Kaitlyn, the only one that got me.

Author's Note

Igonore grammar problems