EVERYTHING ABOUT THE SITUATION WAS so, so wrong. I knew it more than ever in bed that night, legs kicking beneath my bedsheets and pillow propped up to cushion my back as I sat up in bed, once again contacting the puppeteer; pulling at my strings, riling me up and watching with satisfaction.
My phone screen was an illuminated rectangle in gold-infused darkness; white light entangling with the blonde of my eyelashes and dancing on my fingertips as I tapped them on the screen in anticipation.
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Their response unnerved me, too open-ended in the questions it raised in my mind and forced to race through; a blurring tumult of thoughts with no clear track, or path to follow. Confusion was the aim of the game, and I hated to give credit to how good he was at it.
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Everything they said was too vague; too cryptic and devoid of any more meaning that whatever was written so plainly. If I thought too little; thought too much, I lost the message entirely, and that was what irked me most.
None of this was fair, goddammit.
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I physically reeled from the screen, my back clashing with my headboard, sending a surge of pain up my spine. This wasn't my fault, this wasn't my fault at all, but it seemed all too obvious now―that as easy as it was for me to say that; that was the ease with which someone could turn the blame back on me.
