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"This isn't living, right? People don't live this way forever. One day we'll have homes to go to, grocery lists to make..."
She always needed reassurance. Maybe someday she would live a cookie-cutter life that was boring, predictable. Boring was easier to understand than the unknown. Sleeping on concrete floors and matted carpets, dog hair in your mouth and skin so oily you could fry in the midday sun.
But these reassurances only ran so deep. Reassurances didn't make the monsters surrender, didn't quiet the chaos, they were superficial sentiments. She scrapes her knuckles against the cement as repentance and sobs when the cold water hits the open wounds; the way it flushes back the flesh and lets the gravel graze down. She does this until her fingertips tremble and she has to wrap her hand to bear the pain of bending them. Three layers of gauze and a kiss on the wrist later and she's lying back down, on the concrete floor, and she thinks of eggs and milk and wheat bread or white bread? And sundresses and making dinner and pretty manicured hands and sanity.
