A Prose With No Direction

internal conflict: our first argument

Hugh drops me off on my doorstep, his large stature towering over my small one. 

"Consider my offer," I tell him before I enter. "You said that you're home is toxic. I just offered, so please take it into consideration."

Hugh nods. "I will," he answers. "But I also need to consider my Mom's wellbeing. I also want her out of that home, too."

"She's welcomed to live with me," I say. "It's been a while since I had people live with me anyway."

Hugh nods again. But before he leaves, he pats my head, his long, slender fingers rubbing my dead strands. 

"I'll see you tomorrow," he says.

I smile. "Yeah."

I watch him return back to his car and drive into his garage, his arm waving to me before closing it. After our farewells, I enter in my home to find her greeting me at the door. Her expression is stern, black eyes as black as mine glaring lasers into me. 

Why're you like that? I ask her as I remove my shoes and replace it with slippers. You'll get forehead wrinkles if you wear that expression for a long time.

You told him.

Be more specific.

You told him about them.

I stop, my head only moving to look at her.

If we're going to be pennies, shouldn't we be honest?

She nods. You're right. You should be honest.

Exactly, so why the hell are you mad?

She approaches me with heavy, angry steps. 

You're definitely right when you said pennies should be honest with one another.

Right, so—

But I think we both know we've crossed the line between love and change. 

I clench my fist. We are not going through this again.

"My chest feels tight every time I remember you being with me. When I see your face, my lungs feel like they're shrinking, and it's hard to breathe. My heart starts pumping really fast and..."

She imitates me in a childish, girly voice. 

You really had to fucking say that, didn't you?

I glare at her. Since, when did you learn how to fucking cuss at me?

Wasn't it around this age when you started, too? She fires back at me. Clara, you promised not to cross that line. You promised you won't blur the difference. But now, not only have you blurred it, but you fucking crossed it as well! 

I haven't done anything to show you that I've crossed it, I counter. 

Oh, like I didn't see your blushes and teases that night of the sleepover, she says. Or just now, at the fucking drive-in at Sonic. Like I didn't see his loving and doting looks he gave you or when your face flushed every time you thought about him. Please, Clara. This is evidence enough.

How is it evidence—

My God, how are you this deluded? She exclaims. How the hell are you in this much denial? Just because a little shrink touched you without your permission? Just because your little rebound got pissed when you called it off? Just because that one crush of yours never glanced your way? You let all of that lead you into this deep of a denial?