#umbdea

“I hate talking about myself.” she sighs into the back of her hand, which covers about a fourth of her mouth that curves at the edges, and reveals nothing but the plain hypocrisy of her statement. She loves talking about herself. Her thoughts. Her actions. And yet…

“I lied. But why my family, of all people?” she spits the last bout, and nearly pouts in annoyance (as if the act itself couldn’t be anymore brattish, she’s yet to challenge the fact.) she grew up in the sewers, she would say; woke up as a rat that chewed upon the bits and pieces others left, and feasted upon a cockroach or two, when the day was good and it wasn’t particularly humid (much like a cat, dea disliked humidity, rain, water… you name it; obviously, only within a context she could not control and thus, out of her reach of manipulation.) “I’m an orphan. I don’t keep collateral damage.” she laughs, eyes crinkling like a kid at a candy store. As if what she said was as natural as the color of the sky.

It reminds her that she discovered her power in the same manner, and almost with a similar abruptness to the question posed on her. It was almost cliche, she thinks, as if her life had been a movie and when it got worse; worse than when her foster father tried to rape her, ridiculously bad-er than when her twin brother hung himself in front of her, and enormously more evil than when she’d killed the person that drove her and her little brother to insanity, cold blooded, and at the ripe age of 9... . and she rolled into a canal, nearly drowned herself in the joyous process of almost joining her family in the afterlife…