Being outstanding as a writer in the big city of New York, is nowhere as hard as being in a committed relationship, and Camille Forest joggles family, a writing career, with a possible sociopath who might as well be the "Goldilocks' Reaper", a seria...
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A train stops and my arms stretches to plead it waits a while longer for the melancholic me to unsheathe. Ignoring every plea I shed, the train choo choos, it automatic door clenches shut, and not sparing a haste to bliss, it zooms off.
I growl, frustrated—I mean...c'mon! I'm drenched in weariness, sore from the extra "unnecessary" jog, and I'm bleeding from deep cuts in places Band-Aids can't mend. "It's more of an incineration, than a cut." I grumble and immediately reduce my pace to suit my current strength.
Still frustrated with growls and swears spilling from my mouth, I bend over and grab my knees, it in turn makes my back topples like that of a cat keen with its looming sense of danger. My fingers clutches and squeezes both knees so tightly that I can feel the crescent marks from my finger nails already tattooing unto my skin beneath my black tights.
I want to scream so loud and hard, just the way my heart and pounding chest wants me to, but my head enters an auto-defense mode to keep me from doing something unladylike in a subway. So I simply clamp my kneecaps and groan silently, and allow the heaviness of my eyes to give way to a few drops of tears that stains and parts the dirt on the floor.
I sniff and suck heavy chunks of air, exhaling slowly as my throat shudders which breaks the breath into vibrating bits. Upon dropping a dry gulp, I clear my throat, and return a serious gaze to the floor, pretending to search for something extremely invisible. If I look close enough, I might as well find my dignity down here.
After series of seconds of an aimless study, I scatter my eyes in the opposite sides to be sure nobody was standing by a corner watching me nearly shatter—even if they did, they would've only seen me crouch in search of something small. But no stray eyes glances, nor did even a mistaken sneer throw itself at me. "Damn NewYorkers..." I say softly and grind my teeth. "Nobody gives a shit about you, even though you're dying. They'd just go on, minding their goddamn business!"
I fling myself up, and my eyes jumps to a couple awaiting the train. A chubby woman flings her purse at a more slender man, holding the tip of the strap to propel the purse further ahead. Crashing onto the man who heaves his shoulder to receive the hit, the purse yet again retracts and dives for another hit, but this time it cuts past his shielding shoulder and head, drives up, and then it drops, landing harshly on the man's head.
I stifle a laugh and watch the man hiss in pain.
"Don't. You. Dare..." The chubby lady breaks her continuous attacks mid sentence with each slam her purse makes on the slender man's body. "How disrespectful!" She pauses her attack for a few seconds of breathing. "Looking at another girl's ass, right in front of me?" She lets the purse strap slide down her grip until it reaches it extended tip. Her index finger sticking into the curve the bent edge made, she began to slowly spin the purse vertically while walking closer to the slender man as he equally retreats. "You pig!" She yells, lowers her arm, and projects the purse which travels between his legs til it made contact with what seems like his testicles.
