Echo Creek Mental Institution

Chapter 7: The Fuzzy Robot Dog

The room was eerily quiet. Marco and I stayed on opposite sides of the room for what felt like hours but was just ten minutes or so. The thing about silence is that most people hate it. I don't 'cause my thoughts are pretty entertaining, I must say. But Marco seemed to hate it. He kept humming to himself and tapping on everything just to make noise. Saltily, I finish fixing up the play kitchen and move to the center table by the time he's basically picked up a doll.
"Not to be mean," I say as I grab a handful of brushes. "But could you please hurry it up? I don't want to be here."
"Shut up, Estella." He speaks with his throat back. "If you want it done quicker just do it faster yourself."
"Or you could help." I say, letting the sarcasm drip from my mouth.
He glares back at me. "Or you could just move faster." Then turns back to staring at a doll.
I roll my eyes and tune back to my task. Marco, again, catches me out of the corner of his eye. I finish rounding up all the small and plastic paint brushes and make my way over to the sink. As I turn on the water and began to clean them, I frown. I personally hated painting with a passion. All the colors seemed to get messed up and markers were always easier. I used to adore water colors though. When I was in second grade I would paint these sunsets. I was obsessed with doing them ever since I found out oil pastels wouldn't allow watercolors to stick to them. I would draw the horizon in green or black or brown and then draw a big, disproportionate sun above it. From that I would drag my brush across the whole page with orange, then red, then purple. I would spend the whole free time we had just doing that. The watercolor would always outline the sun perfectly and I don't know, that just made me smile. I had found them a month ago and laughed at how horrible they were. But that didn't matter. I miss when you could do what you loved without a need to be good at it. Why do you have to make a career out of what you love? Id rather just sketch away without a compulsory need to make it good than try to draw the Mona Lisa.
"You missed these." Marco interrupts my thoughts as he drops the murky water cups in the sink. The faucet water caught the edge of one and circled back right onto my shirt and dripped down the side onto my non-laced shoes. I scream as the cold water runs down my legs.
Next, without missing a beat. I flip around and throw water off my brushes at him. He looks up at me and dramatically wipes a single water droplet from his cheek. I pull myself against the sink and let out a small giggle.
"You're move, Diaz." I hiss. He then runs at me with another murky cup of paint water and throws it at me, splashing me right in the chest. I retaliate with one of my own cups from the sink right back at his.
Surprisingly, he lets out an audible laugh and reaches past me to stick is hand in the running water. He then flicks his fingers so the small splash hits me in the face. I turn away as he continues to do it even though his fingers were dry and I fire more water off my brushes as the battle continues. He runs away as I advance, still flicking the brushes at him. Opening a random chest, he pulls out stuffed animals and begins to peg then at me. Dropping my brushes, I grab the others like in a game of dodgeball and throw them back at him. Surprisingly, he had a good arm for someone so thin a frail. I got hit by a stuffed owl and grabbed it and flung it back. When the crate was empty we began to circle around the room. I reached the crate and saw one little Dalmatian had been left. I grab it and throw it at him before my brain can register what just happened. I watch at flies through the air and hits Marco right in the gut. He falls and I clap my hands over my mouth, my eyes welling with tears.
"I'm so stupid." I scream in my head. Why did Marco leave that stuffed animal in the bin? It wasn't stuffed that's fucking why! Not it wasn't a real small dog it was robotic, nothing soft or fluffy about it. My feet stuck to the floor as Marco coughs, holding his stomach and almost coughing up a lung.
"I'm so so so sorry." I mutter.
He looks up and smiles a little. Then, with a dimmer to his voice. "It's fine."
My body burned like I was standing in the sun. I hurt him. Why does this always happen? Was I just too awkward and clumsy for this life? Not even a week ago I was playing basket ball with my friend and I threw it at him, as a joke. And I watched in horror as it smacked him right where the sun don't shine. I watched him fall and my other friends gasped and giggled at me but I just stood there in horror. Why did I throw it? Looking back it was a terrible idea. Even if it didn't hit him there, anywhere else still would've hurt it was a fucking basketball!
And now here I was, again, tears in my eyes wondering how I didn't stop my arm when I managed to grab a small robot and hurled it at him. I hurt him. I hurt Marco. I was finally having some fun.

Why does this always happen?

YO AN UPDATE
AH SORRY IVE BEEN GOING THROUGH SHIT SO UH IDK WHATS GONNA HAPPEN
SO YEAH
SORRY
YEAH
FUCKTRUCK
WOLFIE