Murder isn't a good option. Breath.
I smiled politically. My coworker's last comment was rattling the worst parts of my core. My juvenile facial features showed restraint. I pushed back one of my ink black locks of hair behind my ear.
One thing I hated most was how I was used to locking my emotions up and playing along with whatever came my way. I grew up in a conservative home where women didn't really have a word to say. That made me compliant to a default.
She scoffed. “Even you don't deny it!” Her head held high, claiming her victory.
I picked up the pace, hoping I could walk out without casualty. A victory against someone who didn't fight back was hardly glorious. Yet my lack of smirky comeback was pitiful.
My mom used to tell me whenever I saw her anger bubble. “We Woodruff have a bottomless bottle to fill with all the ugly. That’s why you’re so adorable” before pinching my cheek. Ugh… I swear it was an excuse she used to avoid telling me the truth.
Bottled up…
I'll let the ugly fill my bottle with gasoline. I'll be holding the match to watch the world burn while I dance with the flames that I finally set free.
What a crazy fantasy… even for me.
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