I’m 18. I prefer Banks to Lana Del Rey and red to white. I like art and music and politics and books and orange juice at breakfast. I’m diverse and sporadic.
I stared at him.
My eyes, those that he once lovingly gazed into, glared like daggers at his body slumped on the pavement. His body, tangled, bloodied, broken. This was the man I once…
I told you, one day you’d give upon me.
I told you, one day, you, like other guys, will give up on me.
He had abused her so many times.
He was supposed to be her father. This man, the one with the heavy overcoat, the greased back black hair, the long and pointed nose, those black diamond eyes — this was her…