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.”
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