YELLOW is the person who you are living for. the person who saved your life and the reason for your happiness.
"I dream slowly so that missing you doesn't come "(-perry poetry)
Being a mother of two lovely sunshines is something any woman would wi...
The way back to the station was horrible. Because of the stupid cuff chaining me to Jane, we had to sit barely eight centimetres apart. Ughhhhh.
As soon as we reached the station, everyone greeted us. Honestly, this place is usually calm—mostly petty cases like pickpocketing or someone reporting a missing goat or cow. We're even friends with the pickpocket.
"Hello, Old Lani and Jane. What did you two point at each other this time?" Officer Stewart asked.
"Old Lani was holding a butcher's knife, and Jane was holding a gun," Officer Lark answered as he locked us up. Then he went to his desk, grabbed two papers and pens, and handed them over. Not this again...
"You know what to do," he said.
"Yes," we muttered sadly. Officer Lark always does this whenever he has to lock us up. He gives us each a paper and a pen and makes us write an apology letter to each other—plus a list of things we like about each other. Like some twisted friendship assignment. But since there's no table inside the cell, we have to use each other's backs. One bends forward to be the "table" while the other writes, then we switch. After that, we swap letters, say "I love you," hug for ten seconds, shake hands, and wait to be released.
Stupid, I know. He says it "teaches us a lesson." It doesn't. Ughhhhh.
I looked at Jane. She looked at me.
"You bend your back first," I said. We both have an ego problem about this.
"No. You first."
"Noooo, you!"
We were about to start swinging when—
"Ladies! Stop fighting. This is a police station. Why don't you let stone paper scissors decide?" Officer Lark suggested like we were toddlers. We groaned but played anyway.
Jane won.
So I had to be the table. I groaned as I bent down. She wrote painfully slowly. When it was my turn, I did the same out of spite.
When we were done, we called Officer Lark. He stood in front of the cell, arms folded.
"Old Lani, start."
I rolled my eyes, looked at my paper, and read:
"Dear btchy Janie, I am"—whispers—"not"—normal voice again—"sorry for what I did. Next time we have a misunderstanding, I'll bring a grenade. I love you—not. In fact, I still hate you. And the kids love me the most. Until next time, fcker! With lots of hate, Lani."
"Now, that's not nice, Old Lani," Officer Lark scolded.
I smiled sweetly. "Officer Lark... why don't you keep your morals away from me? Hm? Or do you want to be a victim of my wrath?" His gulp was audible.
"Jane's turn," he said quickly.
Jane looked at her paper, then at me, then crumpled it, spit on it, and threw it aside before beginning:
"Dear Old F*cker, I don't know why you try to prove the kids love you more. Obviously they love me more. They literally scream with excitement when they see me. Roses are red, violets are blue, and the kids love me better than they love you. I hope you find someone who loves you—wait, who am I kidding? Nobody loves you. And I don't care. Next time, I'll make sure only one of us ends up in jail. And it'll be me, because you'll be busy dying. With lots of curses, Jane."
That b*tch.
"Well, seems like you both love each other," Officer Lark said cheerfully. "Now come on. Shake hands and hug. Timer's ready."
We cursed under our breath as we shook hands—both of us squeezing as hard as we could. Then we hugged, whispering insults the whole time. Disgusting.
After sitting in the station for hours, we were finally released. The Sheriff dropped us home. He rolled down his window as we got out.
"Please try not to kill each other. Be friends," he said.
Jane and I exchanged a look and simultaneously flipped him off.
