Blue on black
Tears on a river
Push on a shove
Don't mean much
Tears on a river
Push on a shove
Don't mean much
- Ni contemplated the cigarette in her hand. She twirled it lazily around her fingers, pretending to be mesmerized by the display.
In truth, her attention was being held captive by memories.
They all melted together, split screen, scene changes, like someone took a pair of scissors to a dozen different movie reels and stuck the resulting pieces together any which way they felt like putting them. Not that it mattered, since none of the memories were ones she wanted to see.
But that was the way it worked, wasn't it? She could never dwell on the happy times; it was always the tragedy that came back to bug her. Always the blood, the steel, the tears, the fire, the horrible screaming, over and over again. How many sleepless nights did this make? She'd given up counting months ago.
With a sigh, she stopped playing with the cigarette and stuck it in her mouth, digging her lighter out of her bag. Smoking and drinking didn't do a damn thing for her, but systematic self-destruction seemed like the best way to go, and they helped perfect her little sanctuary.
She lit her cigarette and leaned back until her head bumped the wall behind her and watched the first curls of smoke writhe their way towards the gaping holes in the roof.
Why was this the only place she could find peace? Why was it only in the burnt-out husk of the warehouse that she felt calm? It didn't make sense. The wall she was using for a backrest still bore faint bloodstains from when they'd blown Jenny's brains out.
The pile of blackened lumber a few yards away was all that remained of the table where they'd raped Chelsea until she couldn't scream anymore, then slit her throat and laughed while she died.
Somewhere in the shadows was the place they'd held Theo down and sawed his legs off while he squealed like a rabbit. He'd been dead by the time they cut off his arms, but they'd done it, anyway.
Where had Gwyn died? Oh, right- she'd tried to run, and they'd shot her full of holes halfway to the door.
And Ni? Ni herself had been beaten bloody and left in the middle of the floor, still bound hand and foot and gagged. They'd intended for her to die in the fire. What she wouldn't give to have died in that fire.
"Sick ********]"
The voice was so harsh and angry that she barely recognized it as her own.
"[******** bastards. What the ******** did we ever do to you? Chelsea was only fourteen ******** years old, you goddamn monsters. Fourteen."
Chelsea Manning, fourteen. Gwendolyn Manning, twelve. Jennifer Manning, fifteen. Theodore Manning, fifteen.
And Tiffany Manning, seventeen, big sister and only survivor. It wasn't ******** right.
Whisper on a scream doesn't change a thing- won't bring you back
