I like how most of the time you never pay attention to me. It was as if I was a book that you mildly enjoyed reading then decided to store in the darkest corner of the bookshelf, or those two remaining slices of pizza that you forgot to finish and decided to put in the fridge to eat later.

But when you do notice me, I’m also like that book. I am also similar to those two slices of pizza. You wonder what is it that made me change. What made me so different from what I was before. You look into my eyes and see that I am not the same person that I was. These are the moments that I hate the most. These are the moments when I’d just love to go back to being inside the fridge, or in that dark corner of the shelf. Because I know, I swear that I know that I am still the same.

Nothing has changed about me.

As a matter of fact, there is nothing wrong with me.

Everything has changed about you.

I miss the times that we felt like we were one and the same. I miss the times that we actually knew what was going on inside each other’s heads. Those days are now gone, along with every single aspect of who you were. Or rather, who I thought you were.

You’re trapped inside this wonderful world of yours, thinking that I’ve changed. Thinking that I turned into the monster that you think you see. I’m still the same person.

I see you through that tiny round window on the door, and I see your face. All I can see in it is horror as you look at me, and I’m at a loss as to why.

I don’t know you anymore, Abby.

I just don’t.

I hate this. I’ll just go back to sleep. You just go back to pretending I’m not here.

Cigarette butts lay scattered on the carpeted floor along with the shattered pieces of an empty whiskey bottle.

She lies on the sofa, clutching an empty Marlboro box in her left hand and an engagement ring in her right. Her red, watery eyes are fixated on the ceiling.

The phone rings. She throws away the cigarette box, picks up the phone and puts it to her ear.

“Hello? Abby?”

“Oh, Mom. Hi.”

“How are you doing dear?”

“I’m good, Mom. You?”

“I’m alright dear. So how is Henry doing?”

“He’s fine.”

A pause.

“Okay so he isn’t. He hasn’t been fine since the day that… Okay, Mom, listen. I need to go visit the ward now. There’re some papers that need sighing, you know, legal stuff.” She starts to feel her eyes swell with tears.

“O-okay Mom gotta go, bye, love you,” she says shakily. She puts down the phone, and teary-eyed, walks toward her room, or rather, their old room. She reaches underneath the king-sized mattress, and pulls out a shiny black revolver.

Still clutching the ring in her right hand, she points the gun to the left side of her head. She feels the eerie coldness of the trigger on her finger.

She slowly squeezes the trigger. “Why did this have to happen to you, Henry?” she whispers gently.

A loud bang. A dull thud as the body falls down to the floor. A pool of crimson-colored blood, seeping into the carpet.



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