yougottalosecontrol
I just don't think I love you in the same level, he said and coldly twisted my guts into pieces. You mean you love me as just a friend? I ask and couldn't quite bring my eyes to meet his pale, emotionless face.
I think you just failed this level, I heard the garbage disposal whisper. Behind the corner a dull colored bird and cracked brick wall echoed the very same words, over and over again. I heard it in the crunch of the sand beneath my bare feet, and in the crackle of the fire in his living room five-hundred-and-seventy-eight feet away.
Game over.
“Daddy, Abby said her mommy said I have bad roots. What does she mean?”
I saw him stare into the distance, right where the greensplattered forest ends and her golden meadow begins, and chuckle. He looked down on me, smiling his strange lopsided smile, and picked me up on his shoulders so smoothly that I could have easily been a bag of salt & vinegar chips.
“Don’t worry about it sweetie,” he whispered. “As long as I water you enough, you’ll be perfectly fine.”
Sometimes I regret not understanding his words until it was too late.
Roots rising from the barren, ice-cold soil. They were growing higher and stronger, grasping my ankles and knees and hips and chest, reaching for the hollow of my neck. That’s when I knew I couldn’t take his love anymore.