She sits in the hollow cradle of the empty church and tries to find the right words to make the kind priest understand that she’s here looking for silence, not religion. It’s not unhappiness weighing her down, exactly.
She’s at the tip of the teapot. She wants to break something. Or someone. Ten thousand nightmares mingled with madness are marching steadily to nowhere inside her brain. She hates this waiting. She hates running toward milestones that are always just beyond her field of vision. She hates working and waiting for good things to happen and the sneaky suspicion that somehow, they won’t.
She dreams too much. She wants too much. She wants to win. She wants to be insanely and undeservingly lucky. Her blood is full of poison. She’s thinks too many terrible things, all the time. She spends so much time hoping, wishing, fearing, loving and hating. So much time, her heart can never rest.
She wanted to do something ordinary, write something ordinary. After three paragraphs of romantic fluff, her brain rebelled and spewed out thirty pages of violent smut. Don’t cringe at the revelation. It is what it is.
Evangeline, thrusts the shattered laptop at the bemused technician.
“What about that? Can you fix that?”
He regards her owlishly, passing judgement on her bad hair, fidgety hands, her t-shirt turned inside out. There’s a mean and impatient look in her eyes so he nods, smiles, then he lies.
“Sure, we can fix it. Come back tomorrow. It’ll be like brand new.”
