Her back faces the older woman, sturdy and strong yet slightly trembling.
"So it's all my fault?" Her voice sounded distant, like she was trying to think. Calculating something. Replaying. Thinking. Calculating.
The younger girl next to her immediately replied, "well, yeah, he was okay before we got home---"
"I didn't fucking ask you!" She yelled. Tugging at her hair strands as she sat straighter. "Fuck!"
"What would you call it then? He's clearly angry. We got home and your sister's a mess. You're supposed to take care of things." The older wiman chimed, drilling a stare at her fingernails. They were chipped, and bare, yet they held her eyes captured for so long.
She wanted to hit something. Her fists itched and a suffocating heat bubbled up inside her; it boils her blood, pumps her heart twice times faster. Sending adrenalines. Making black dots appear.
"This is my fucking room and I wasn't even the one who got home this late at night," she whispered, barely audible, constraining her rage. Her disappointment. Her hate. Her everything.
"What? You what?"
"I'm just so fucking done here."
She stood up, strode towards the door. Her breath was getting harsher and more ragged by seconds and when she reached the only exit, her hands lashed out, slamming the poor door with a loud noise.
She hates it. Being blamed at, when she does nothing wrong. Taking the blames, when she does everything she's supposed to do.
She hates being the stump end of the black goat's tail.
YOU ARE READING
Blunt
Short Story"For I am a blunt edge, the dull side that is of a deadly weapon; yet still, I can cut through the waves in an odd sense." -Forgive and Take- "Like a progressive evolution of a semi-completed music score, our hands reach out of the nebula. We pictur...
