He walks me backwards, getting dangerously close to the edge of the building. "You're a suicidal maniac and you don't even know it." He looks me up and down, lowering his tone. "But I see right through you darling"
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In which a troubled girl with...
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It's been a few hours since the sun rose, and I reluctantly came back home. I still feel the night breeze on my skin, albeit being surrounded by the stale air of my upstairs room.
I don't remember the exact day I found that house, or the day I discovered how addicting it is to sit on the roof of it, but I do know that I never want to stop.
Oftentimes I'm tempted to go during the day, walk down the street to it and climb the stairs up the side that lead to the roof so I can watch the clouds. Or the birds even, it doesn't matter.
But that's too risky. See, I've got to keep it a secret, if other people find out about it they'll ruin it's beauty.
I can't risk anyone seeing me go up there.
That neighborhood is mainly filled with older couples, so the chances of them seeing any potential in an abandoned house, with a crumbling roof is slim. But it's better safe than sorry, right?
I throw my body down on the bed, praying I have the willpower to resist burning this house to the fucking ground.
My mom isn't home, she's gone to work by this time, but her piece of shit boyfriend is downstairs.
He moved in a few years ago, and has single-handedly managed to make my life more of a hell than it was before.
He's watching Jeopardy with the tv on the loudest setting for whatever reason, and he's laughing his lungs out at who know what.
it's Jeopardy, how funny can it fucking be?
His lack of courtesy for the other occupants in this house astonishes me more and more everyday.
And the fucking popcorn! Every day, 6 times a day he makes popcorn in the microwave.
It makes the entire house smell like a movie theater and cheap artificial butter. I don't even know where he gets it from because he doesn't leave the damn house.
And he leaves the popcorn crumbs all over the counter, dining room table, microwave, floor, everywhere you could fucking imagine.
I always thought it was common-sense that you're supposed to clean up after yourself, especially when you're at other people's house. But boy, that man shows me how uncommon common-sense is everyday.
Not to mention the fact that he's fucking disgusting. He can't go a single day without making some type of comment about the outfit I have on.
He says stuff like "back in my day, when a girl dressed like that, it meant she was getting fucked in alleys during her free time".
Yeah like I said, fucking disgusting.
So now here I am on my bed, unsuccessfully trying to drown out the game show coming from downstairs with headphones.
