DICORE [NO LONGER UPDATING]

Chapter 15

"Do you expect us to live like nothing happened, Aqua?" I ask, carrying several bags and one box of things to our new adress.

He shrugs. "I don't want to even try, but," he pauses to take a deep breath in. "If that's what we have to do to survive, then I think I will. Do you expect me to live like nothing happened, too, Pyro?"

I can't reply for a second. "I expect you to live like a normal person. I know you're the one with seperation anxiety whenever anyone leaves for the grocery store."

"The person who almost died playing glorified 'truth or dare' expects me to live like a normal person," he sneers.

I hold my breath, and pace in front of him, and open the door to our relocated house. Setting down the bags I was carrying, I look around with an unprecedented rage. This is not a home anymore. The yellow-striped wall paper of the kitchen, the damged banister, the tidy tiled flooring, it seems so familiar, but it's only disgusting now. The smell of death is long gone, but you can tell this is the place where two people died at the same time. Me and Elizabeth. If that even was her name.

"The house is in its proper place. With neighbors," Aqua says, setting down his things, too.

"Shut up," I say. "That's the biggest lie I've ever heard."

"I'm not usually violent, but I would reccomend that you never say the words, 'shut up,' ever again, or else you might misplace your kneecaps," Aqua held a straight face while making this strange threat.

"Okay," I reply.

In my head, I echo, "Shut up," but I think Aqua might actually mean what he says, so I don't say it out loud.

"This box goes upstairs," he says, handing me an old cardboard container, filled with books, and other various knicknacks.

"Thanks," I say, and walk to the second floor.

I enter my room, and look at the bare wood floor, dusty. This room is the only place in the house I can't reject as being not part of a home anymore. Nothing can bring more comfort than your own bedroom.

I sit down on the ground, and look through the box. One item is my bedsheets, folded. I put it aside on the floor. An English dictionary Aqua brought home one time, a map of URSRIS, one that use to be on the left wall, above my bookcase, a vintage 2000s DVD copy of "Annie Get Your Gun," the Winnie The Pooh collection, translated into Terrian, I finished those books a long time ago, a framed baby picture of Aqua, when he was called River, and my sword.

I want to throw out my sword, but I set it aside by the other items. You never know what might happen.