Ideals and Realism

Chess

"What?" Ideals texts back.

The words, "Realism is typing", is shown at the top of the phone with a ray of utter despair.

"I don't like them," He texts back.

"He's in the hospital can you please come?" Ideals texts.

He doesnt answer.

"Realism? Why are you not answering me?"

He doesn't answer.

"Please?"

"No," He texts.

"Why are you being so stubborn?" She texts.

"Don't insult me,"

"But you are being stubborn, stop hiding from the truth,"

"Call me. Now," He states.

She calls him, staring at the phone while a look of anger is veiled onto her delicate face like a small pane of sheer glass or a pale fabric.

"Hey," she says.

"Why would you say that about me?"

"What? I called you stubborn."

"Yeah, you did. Why?" He says as he raises his voice.

"Why are you being so controlling?"

"Why are you being such a bitch?" He yells.

"I thought you cared about me."

"I do but you're being clingy."

"You're being an ass," She mutters.

"Thanks," He states before hanging up the phone.

She throws her head into her hands.

"What the hell was that?" Innocence says from the hospital room.

"Nothing you need to know about," she answers, "When is your mom going to be here?"

Innocence's mom walks into the room with quick steps.

"Speak of the devil!" Innocence coughs with a tone of happiness into his hoarse voice.

"How are you honey?" She says.

Ideals stares into the air while resting her head onto her hands. Her insides fill with a feeling of anger and sadness. She is full of a depression and regret, which makes the back of her throat ache. Innocence and his mother talk in the background as Ideals rubs her temples. She cannot fathom the reality of what he just did, "maybe it was just an outburst," she thinks, "maybe he's just stressed." These thoughts flush through her with a sense of hopefulness, clinging onto romance and blinded by love.

Realism took his feet off of the soft mustard couch and jumped to a standing position, the room was dark and reflected a high contrast atmosphere. His eyes beam to the television which shows a brightly lit soap opera. He smacks the remote with the force of a crash, turning it off.

Sun beams of a sunset glance in, peering at his face. Window blinds cast a shadow of small rectangles in the room. Throwing on a coat, he hurries out the door with fast steps and a pissy mood, stomping like a five year old child and grunting like a grandfather with children playing on his lawn.

Paisley print rebels sit in an alley smoking weed together. Angst tells stories of past experiences, including his first murder. Torture has a cloth tied around his mouth, concealing his words of hatred. He stares into the air, almost as if he was glaring at a hallucination that appeared in front of him. His eyebrows twisted in slightly curved u shapes. His mouth sucks on the cigar with a delicate pucker.