There were bags under his eyes. His hair was all over the place, as if he went through it more than a hundred times. He looked older -older than what I thought he was- unshaven and tired.
I didn’t feel sorry for him.
My mother had often told me that I was too naïve and good-hearted. She said there wasn’t an ounce of evilness in my soul. She called me pure. She thought I was her angel.
Right now I was so far from pure that I’d never even be able to come close to it. I hoped that he felt worse; I wished the worst for him. My heart turned so black but I didn’t take anything back. He made me feel that way. And it was never going to be fixed; I wanted to let him know that.
I was eating breakfast on the third day when his door opened. I guessed he thought that I was asleep because he looked surprised to see me on the kitchen table eating my French toast.
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