I didn't know why I had done it. At least that's what I said to myself. The voice in my mind that resembles what I think my own to sound like, forcing the me that knows the truth. Forcing her to believe the better version. But I couldn't. I couldn't! The real thing, the actuality of the brutality kept fogging up everything. Curling itself around the memory I was trying to shape into being. And her, she was mad. She was insane.
"It was aesthetically pleasing," I told her. The colors. Red flowing into white. It could've been a work of art, I reasoned. The bitch wasn't having it. We both wanted a cigarette. Our hands shook as we lit it. She couldn't even smoke it right, the sissy kept on crying. She kept on trying to lie. Trying to make herself innocent. But I know the truth. I know why we did it.
