#how nice.

You'll see some jackass, who probably didn't learn all the atrocities his country committed because there's so many of them they can't possibly fit it in history class and it really makes their country sound bad so there's barely any attempt to teach it, spouting shit and saying "you should be grateful to us" and you who, even if your history books were whitewashed from their country's colonization, learned of the atrocities gets mad and writes a rant about it. Because it's infuriating! The audacity after what they did!

We make it work. It's slow movements and cumbersome sleep, hitched breath when the guard knocks and barges open the front door, wide eyes cast to each other, twin predictions of when discovery will occur. My host is not scared, so I am not either.

The basement had caved in was the reasoning I was gratefully given for why. I would not be able to stand to live in such close proximity to the thing that had ruined me so dreadfully; that glorius shining gate, just behind that flimsy shelf. Perhaps that was what my host was thinking too as I was led to the refurnished attic, and as we both avoided any glimpse of that awful color through hiding the miniscule window that lay with us.