drag

You like Dio's room. You like how the cold pierces your skin, makes you shiver. It's an inconvenience, but so much better than the scorching, sweltering Egyptian heat that always plagues outside, even in the moonlight. You think back to the way you slumped and sighed, pushed through the crowds in search of the mansion when you first arrived. That day was so hot. The air so dry, so stiff, that it reminded you of Georgia. It does every day, ever since you've been in Egypt.

Georgia is full of familiarities, of course it is. How could it not be? You grew up there, made so many small, insignificant memories that still linger in your mind. Just the simple thought of it is enough to lead you down a rabbit hole.

You can still remember all the time you had as a child: how little of it you spent under the sun, and how much of it was spent in your father's study, reading books he'd tossed aside. You remember the first of many, many times you fell chasing after Perla, of course, and how upset you got the time she tore up your books when the both of you were small.

That was the only time you yelled at her. Your tiny voice echoed, bounced off the walls, and then you watched: just watched as her eyebrows twitched, and her bottom lip quivered, once, then twice as her body trembled. You watched how with just the narrow of your eyes, she burst into tears, sobbing and wailing sorry after sorry.

You never apologized, never comforted her. And eventually, you didn't want to watch her anymore, so you turned your head and sat there, trying to stick the shredded pages back together, drowning out the noise. You forget what prompted such apathy. You always caved for your sister, always.

Apathy proved worthless, neither fixing the book nor bringing quiet to the room; just a distraction. It's a lot like what you're doing now, utterly useless. It doesn't matter if you can remember all the times she pestered you, or the time the two of you spent together. None of it matters anymore. Georgia's a parasite, the way it's latched itself onto you. It's gnawing and nibbling on your mind like it wants to consume it whole, as if it hasn't already.

Or maybe you're the parasite.

You don't know anymore. However, you do know that you don't like thinking of Georgia. The thought of it makes your stomach sick, and yet here you are. It's been a week, maybe two, but not a second has been spent in peace. There's been not a moment where Georgia and all its sickening southern charm hasn't popped into your mind, even when you're with Dio.

You can't bring yourself to hate it, no, yet you can't stand the memories. You want to escape them for what little time you have in Egypt. You're eager, so eager that you can't admit it to yourself. You don't want to. It's one of many, many truths you're forcing down for the time being, for your own sake.

At least until your mother starts to worry, calling and calling you with her quiet, hoarse voice over the line. And then you have to drag yourself back over there.

.

.

.

Tonight is like any other.

You're sat on his bed, reading. You read something different every night. Some nights it's scripture, other nights it's an old play, or poetry Dio likes. Tonight, it's an obscure little novel, from an author whose name is small and forgettable. The plot is somewhat intriguing, but the paragraphs are tall. They stretch on and on, making the pages seem infinite and the words verbose. 

It's only a matter of time before your mind gets tired, and your eyes begin to wander; not that there's much to see that you haven't already.

You've come to appreciate all the little things that decorate Dio's room, it'd be surprisingly scarce without them. Especially if considering the luxuries piled up in the halls.