#tw vent

My fucking sibling just blocked me on twitter, and said it was because they were "going thru smth" they "didn't want shared". They don't tell me shit, how would I tell the world their shit?

Obviously, I overreact and block them back, delete any post i can find that mentions them, unfriend them on discord, and go over to tumblr to vent about it. How else would I react. /s

I guess it's kind of a sore spot they hit, since my ex suddenly blocked me everywhere with no proper reason as well. And sure, they don't know this. And sure, they very well may be going through it. But is it so horrible to say I can't be bothered to care?

Maybe I'm selfish. (I'm definitely selfish.) But I will not act like they have it any worse than I do. Our parents are mostly their parents, our mutual friends are basically just their friends, and their worst friendship trauma they've struggled to speak of was a friend telling their crush they liked him. And not to play in the trauma olympics (I'm playing in the trauma olympics) but my friend sexually assaulting me repeatedly for at minimum a month is something I laugh about. It pisses me off so, so much that them getting an emotional boo-boo is treated with such care, but me literally having been raped as a child has been of no concern since the day after my mother found out. (And it barely was the day she asked and was answered, either.)

They can do whatever they want unquestioned. Me referring to their struggles as the teenage experience is called wildly unempathetic and callous. (That is just what it is. I'm completely accurate in that statement. They weren't even within earshot.) I'm treated as the scum of the earth for being angry at all ever.

What makes it worse is that I DEFEND them too. I will put myself under more stress to call out when our parents speak unfairly or unjustly about them. I correct misunderstandings, and suggest further support. No one thanks me for this, I just do it because I don't want them to turn out as fucked up as me.

When they briefly engaged in self harm they were treated with concern and care, and I was asked to try and steer them away from it. When my still ongoing tendencies were last discovered, my phone was wiped, my accounts were locked down, and I wasn't allowed to leave my room (also completely cleared of items) outside of mealtime for days. How is that fair? I had to beg to be given fifteen minutes to try to talk to my (at the time) best friend. Everything was sifted through. I was asked to provide the location of any remaining hidden blades, and I had to give one where I would lose the least. I was mocked for it by my own father, while I was outside doing chores as they gutted my room. They have guilt tripped me about it countless times. Saying how scary it was to have to sift through bags or plushie innards that may contain loose blades, the same blades I had been using to slice open my skin.

And my sibling just gets love and concern.

I get I'm the fuck-up, the "practice child" for my parents so they could raise my sibling properly. I'm aware. I know I'm not perfect whatsoever. But surely a kid can't deserve this? All this?? Surely a child should be given at least a second thought, even if just a passing one?

I tried to kill myself when I was twelve, before I even started deliberately harming myself. It wasn't a sudden thing, I had been on the edge for a while— walking by roads at night and debating jumping in front of a car, holding a knife with the point towards my stomach or throat, et cetera. The route I eventually went with was taking a bunch of expired painkillers and whatever else I could find.

Obviously, it didn't work. I woke up sick, throwing up everything, and remained ill for the day. I didn't tell a soul until years later. My mom did find the pill bottle one day, but never asked, and as far as I can tell she doesn't know.

An annoying long term side effect of this is that I'm afraid of pills. I don't get spooked by them or whatever, but seeing or hearing or smelling or tasting them (or really being in proximity to them at all— though ESPECIALLY feeling them in my mouth) makes me nauseous. This has very slowly gotten better over the years (though I kinda fucked the recovery with my brief dph issue) but still persists. My mother has been very irritated by this every time that it has come up. She is not very understanding unless there is a diagnosis LMAO.

I don't get kindness or understanding or love. I'm just not that lucky. But my sibling gets it all, and they get so many friends. It's just not fair, how I'm stuck living in the shadow of someone who came after. It's not fucking fair. I want to be human. Why can't I be? Why can't I be a person? Why can't I be worth caring about to ANYONE? I'm always being forgotten or left behind or just less wanted than others. I'm never the first option to anyone, not even my own fucking family. And I haven't even scratched the tip of the god damn iceberg here.

My uncle, when we were watching a movie that has been a christmas tradition to my family, got irritated at me because my presence was somehow in the way of him getting to see his sister for what supposedly could be the last time in years (since my family is moving). This, among numerous compounding incidents, reinforced an idea that I'm just not someone people talk to, which pretty much ruined the holiday season for me.

In seventh grade (aka hell), I was effectively decoration to my friend group. I wasn't spoken to, I was just there to fill space. I wasn't anyone's favorite. Eventually the group fell apart and I was left alone. My closest friend (entirely and obviously one-sided, he had a "platonic soulmate") stopped talking to me and decided he hated me after I rejected an offer of a friendship bracelet (I struggle with jewlery, it can often be uncomfortable or even painful for me to wear, I explained this). My girlfriend would talk about her fictional crushes to her much closer friend right in front of me, and later told me she liked me more when I was quieter.

I don't even want to fucking start on eighth grade, it led to so much shit including the most toxic fucking codependent relationship ever experienced as well as a guy who used to yap abt his masturbation oc (I'm not joking. It was called the blanket prince.) harassing me for over a year and then my (now ex) best friend as a proxy when he no longer could.

Promised myself I was gonna be like super active on here

Then bam, learned I got sexually assaulted when I was 5 yrs old

Bam go into a depressive spiral

Oh wow we are actually getting better JK LMAO YOU THOUGHT ART BLOCK AT THE WORST POSSIBLE TIME

several mental healths scare and physical health scares later, hearing and seeing things that aren’t there and genuinely feeling like your going crazy

Also turns out my ex manager was doing heroin in the store and ended up walking out of my job

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑢𝑝 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒, 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑡'𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑢𝑛𝑛𝑦, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘. 𝐻𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑝𝑠, 𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑛𝑢𝑚𝑏. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑠, ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑓𝑢𝑛𝑛𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑓 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑦 𝑏𝑢𝑖𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑗𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑖𝑡. 𝐹𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑖𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑚 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ 𝑖𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝑖𝑡'𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑎 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑟𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑑𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑢𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑤 𝑎 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ. 𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠, 𝑖𝑡 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑠 𝑓𝑢𝑟𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑦, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑒 𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑠𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑠, 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒, 𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑝 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑠𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑝. 𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐼𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑖𝑡'𝑠 𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑎 𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓 𝑖𝑡. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑘𝑒𝑡 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑎 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑛𝑢𝑓𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑟𝑦 𝑖𝑡. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑑; 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑢𝑟𝑔𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑗𝑢𝑚𝑝. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ-𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑧𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑢𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑎𝑙 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑤𝑎𝑦, 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑎 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑖𝑡, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑤𝑎𝑦. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑢𝑝 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛. 𝑂𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑑𝑜 𝑖𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘.

𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑡 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑒, 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛'𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑓 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠, 𝑎 𝑑𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑒𝑥ℎ𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑐𝑙𝑎𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑡'𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑢𝑛𝑔𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑣𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑙 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒.

𝑇𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠, 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦'𝑑 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦'𝑑 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑎 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑜 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑟, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑏𝑠𝑜𝑙𝑣𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑢𝑖𝑙𝑡. 𝐼𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑦, 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑎 𝑠𝑝𝑢𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙, 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛'𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑡ℎ. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑔𝑜 𝑜𝑛 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛'𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑓 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑑, 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑛'𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑟𝑢𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒.

𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑔𝑜 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑓, 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒, 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑛𝑜 𝑐𝑖𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑎𝑛 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎 𝑠𝑖𝑔𝑛. 𝑇𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑟𝑢𝑛 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑑𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙. 𝑌𝑜𝑢'𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑐𝑖𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒 𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑙𝑎𝑦 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑒𝑛 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑘 𝑝𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦'𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑐𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝑖𝑡 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑡, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑐𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛 𝑖𝑡. 𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙 𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑖𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑢𝑏𝑏𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑓𝑓. 𝑇𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑙𝑖𝑚𝑏 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑓𝑒𝑡𝑦 𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑈𝑠𝑢𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑦 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑡, 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑘 𝑖𝑡. 𝑇𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑘 𝑖𝑡. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑡ℎ 𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑠 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑏𝑖𝑙𝑒. 𝑌𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑎 𝑑𝑜 𝑖𝑡, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑓𝑜𝑜𝑡𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝𝑠 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑓.

"𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔?" ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑚𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔.

"𝐼'𝑚 𝑔𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓," 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑛𝑑. 𝑇𝑜𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤, 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑢𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑜𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑝𝑢𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑓𝑒𝑙𝑙. 𝐼𝑡 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑏𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒. 𝐻𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑑.

"𝐴𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢?" ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑠𝑘𝑠, ℎ𝑒'𝑠 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑡 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑟 𝑛𝑜𝑤, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑝𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 ℎ𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠. 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑, 𝑛𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 ℎ𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑝𝑠 𝑜𝑟 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑜 𝑖𝑡. 𝐻𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛'𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑠𝑘 𝑤ℎ𝑦, 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑡.

"𝑌𝑒𝑠, 𝐼 𝑎𝑚," 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑓𝑒𝑙𝑡. "𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡," ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠, "𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑖𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑠𝑚𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑐𝑖𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑤, ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑟𝑢𝑑𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑏𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑖𝑡. 𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑗𝑢𝑚𝑝, 𝑜𝑟 𝑔𝑜 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑎𝑦. 𝑆𝑜 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢?" ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑠𝑘𝑠 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑎 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑔𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒. 𝐻𝑜𝑤 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑎𝑑 ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠? 𝐻𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎 𝑐𝑖𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑖𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡, ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑦 𝑠𝑙𝑜𝑡𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑝𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑠 𝑖𝑡.

𝑇𝑜𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤.