#3

 

"Clearly you were thinking I was someone else!"      was shouting...again.

He'd had a temper as of late. I hadn't really noticed, but, in all fairness I'd never really noticed him to begin with. It was he that approached me.

He was sobbing. It was induced and intentional.
I didn't even know who he was talking to but he was looking right at me.

I blinked. Not in awe, but in passing. His hair was so lifeless. He reminded me of an ex from years ago in Los Angeles, always in control of his victimization.

"Say something!" He continued. His eyes, not so much wild as they were impetuous, begged not for sympathy but for a reaction--retaliation even.

Was it always like this? Had I never been keen to his fits of hysteria? The broken dishes and remnants of mangled furniture stacked neatly in the corner told me that maybe I had.

I noticed blood on my hands and surprised myself with how mild a curiosity I held as to it's origin. Was it mine? Was it his blood? How long had it been there? 

They were arbitrary questions. I knew this without knowing anything of the situation--a scene clearly and so frequently calculated.

Exhausted, I walked upstairs and went to bed.