#milleroptimism

She’s never felt so soiled, so dirty – Nikki once believed tears could be exhausted, but now she isn’t so certain – what did you do, Bear!? But she knows – you wished for this -- and yet still cannot wrap her head around it. How could he do this? She'd trusted him! Moist palms grip her arms painfully to mold the flesh in some form of futile protection, pinching to steady herself and not exactly succeeding. The room in which she sits alone now is old, grey, with a top window she can’t reach. A table rests between her and an empty chair. Two men claiming to be from the FBI came an hour ago after Bear died; took her away. There was no police cruiser, just an old Impala; she only followed because she saw the badges and didn't want to make matters worse by arguing – and the whole ride she wept, shaking, trying to get all that blood off her violently but only spreading it further all the while whispering: It wasn’t me....!

A woman enters the room: pretty, her eyes kind but hard – the eyes of someone who’s seen a lot, the eyes of someone you want to impress. “.... I didn’t...”, she begins, swallows, “It wasn’t.... – it wasn’t me...” Is there a point where they might believe her? Her shoulders sag – probably not.

“ ohhhh I'm not eating that. I'm on a strict diet and workout regiment  –  a scone could throw off my whole routine for a week. Thanks though. "