I remained quiet, gazing at the fire in front of me. I hated that I related to him. I hated how he made so much sense all the time.
He was just like me. He felt pessimistic about this world because his dad had always imagined the worst of it. He didn't sugarcoat things at all.
And I could assume he had no say in what his father decided, so he is forced to watch everything blow up in flames.
His eyes were luminous in the moonlight, like a pale raspberry orchard.
"Revenge." He spoke softly.
I tilted my head, confused, "What?"
"What do I wish for most in this world?" He stopped to look at me.
"Revenge."
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Scars Of Truth
FantasyThe truth is not for comfort -- it's for liberation. It's not a medicine -- it's a killer. Truth is so hard to tell, it sometimes needs fiction to make it plausiable... That's exactly what Aviva Branwens life felt like, one great fictional diary. Sh...
