I am the protagonist, she writes, sitting on a dusty couch with her dirty bare feet crossed on the dusty coffee table in front of her. From the depths comes a baleful screeching noise that she chooses to disregard, engrossed as she is in telling her story. A story of dust and debris. A story of madness.
Shut up shut up shut up you stupid cunt. Shut your fucking goddamn fingers. I will rip your throat out, tear those pretty fingernails from their beds, leave you shrieking.
Where was she? Ah yes. The story. Once upon a time, Little Bo Peep, who was blind, lost her little lamby-lamb and all the world mourned. A boy lied and all the world mourned. A group of children picked on someone smaller than themselves and all the world mourned. The world did not end and the world rejoiced, although some parts of the world mourned. Friendships cracked like concrete, crumbled into dust.
She takes a sip of water, feels it thick in her throat. She wiggles her toes because she can. The same five songs run over and over in her head. She has nothing left to say. A protagonist without a story. It's not so bad. You can't really drown in dust.
(Can you?)
Uncontrolled contempt courses through her blood like dust. She lets it slip out her fingertips, caustic and hostile. If she swallows it, she'll choke, and so she spits it out in thick bitter gobs. Shut up shut up shut up. You stupid fucking cunt.
