Everything falls apart. Even buildings, standing idle throughout time slowly fade away as the world marches brazenly onwards. The wind gradually chips way their souls, tearing flecks of paint away; leaving them exposed.
Buildings always fascinated me- towering above as I grew up, they always seemed so permanent: a solid, unwavering feature of my adolescence. My favourite building was the one on 52nd street. Perched upon it, faded but glorious, was a ballerina. She pirouetted eternally, teasing me with her skills I could never match. By the time I discovered her, her once vibrant colours were long gone; her shining green irises replaced with a solemn look of grey. She still hung there, despite the depression and layers of graffiti she was swathed in.
In a way it was a blessing, the fire. Tore right through her in 10 minutes flat. When the fire brigade arrived, all that was left was a melancholy foot- pointing gracefully towards the ash littering the floor. The rest of her was a shallow husk, gaping wide open like an empty life. At least it was quick.
The emptiness became too much. I poured my heart into that building and it burst into flames. The ballerina never cared about me- she just wanted someone to gaze at her with adoration. Selfish.
Gradually, my hatred for her grew. I dreamt of what I would do to her if I could, forgetting of course that she wasn’t real. Harbouring my anger for years; it slowly grew into a burning vendetta. Then, one day, she fell.
The whole building collapsed. I don’t know why- I can’t see too well from my room- but one day her leftover foot crumbled into smoke. It drifted away on the breeze, my hatred escaping with it. I didn’t realise I was crying until much later.
I’ve felt a lot less angry since then.
“Thank you for sharing that today, Cassandra.” Ugh. The therapist’s whining voice chills me, too sweet to be real. As though she’s playing a trick but won’t ever tell you about it.
I stand up, pushing my chair back with just enough force to release my anger without punching her but not enough to attract attention. I reach for the coffee; I need to steady my trembling fingers. They always shake when I’m angry, ever since…
“Wonderful story.” The new girl slips the coffee pot out of my hand. What does she think she’s doing?
“Are these group sessions always this boring?” She sips my coffee.
“I wouldn’t know, I don’t come that often.” She doesn’t deserve to know.
“Oh, are you new too then?”
“No, I’ve been here a while actually.” I try to inflect with a light-hearted tone; attempting to mask my anger. Bottling up my emotions. Whoops.
“Really. What are you in for?”
I reach for the coffee pot, gripping it tight as I smile.
“Arson.”
Leah's Writing 