Sometimes being at war doesn't make you a warrior. It makes you a coward, a big, fat coward. You shoot at the enemy because you feel inadequate.
In the background, a series of doors smacking their frame feel almost rhythmic, musical. Blood rushes to my head as I hear yells, my heart thumping with such fervent emotion. I feel scared to touch these keys, scared to make even a peep in the storms of war beyond my door. I'll spare you the gruesome details, the words and the numerous, mindless remarks such as "I don't want any part of you. I don't want you near me." But, as I sit here in shock, I need to become real with myself. I knew, all day, this would happen. Since the first minute my mom stepped over the threshold, with a solemn look in her eyes, a cold war began, its silence killing all the inhabitants of this house, slowly and invisibly, like carbon monoxide.
Words are flying through my head, like Color Guard flags do as girls in shiny uniforms thrust them into the air and in circles. I'm not sure how to sort them, to group them, just like football players on a field, colorful blurs in constant motion that proceed after the Marching Band and Color Guard at high school games. Violent debacles make my head ache, even if I weren't involved. But, somehow, I was. My parents, the people by which nearly all my physical attributes are derived from, and more specifically my mother, hurling words at my dad that can't be erased, words that slice and chop, words that puncture and scar, words that even Mederma can't fade.
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