RUN RABBIT, RUN!

one. eat sleep repeat

WAKE UP,
get ready, fulfill duties, pretend to like it, shower, eat (when the foods actually edible), sleep, repeat.

That's the burdened routine we all put ourselves through.
   Who am I kidding? We don't do anything. Candy was used to this. The annoying but comfortable repetition in which it made her feel in control, like her life truly belonged to her. But that was only because she knew she would wake up in her own bed tomorrow, because she memorized the food schedules.

But why did every step forward feel like it was supposed to be a step back? Why did it feel like she was in someone else's shoes?

The pink-haired girl foolishly thought that a lazily put together routine would help. She thought socialization would help, she thought excluding romantic relations would help, even the friendly ones. But nothing works. Until therapy. That is, to be decided.

In her 17 years of make-believe happiness, of comfort. Playing pretend always felt so safe to her, but what happens when she finally wakes up? When that thin line of desperation mixed with lying to yourself is cut with harsh words? Harsh consequences.

Candy had been lying in bed for what feel like two hours now—which had been the most sleep she'd received in weeks.
Slowly, her cell door opened revealing the early days Steve Harwell dead ringer. His strident voice ordering her to leave her main form of prison occupied the cell, and not wanting to cause trouble—like getting in fight outs with six different people, she quietly obeyed, despite wanting to smack the bitch across his face. No wonder he's only known for being the bitchy version of Steve Harwell.

Just as everyday, she met the cafeteria with everyone else, having to decide between swallowing poison or skipping breakfast. And, hey, they say it's the most important meal of the day, right?

-

As the button nosed girl casually performed an exaggerated amount of push-ups, she thought back to her date set in court.
She was wrongfully accused of killing two people in a car accident (to which, she's never touched a steering wheel in her life. The most she's done was watch car crash compilations), purposefully.

She hadn't found out much of the incident afterwards, just that the two people she supposedly robbed their lives of, was succeeded by their son.

Out of breath, she stopped working her muscles to the brim, and sprawled out her limbs against the sandy floor. "One month. One month and I'm out."

———

  "Ares, if you want to remember, I'm going to need you to focus." The woman in plain eggshell white affirmed, as she sat across from the brunet in her purple sofa. Ares laughed at her, digging his tan face into his hands. Her eyebrow raised, albeit he was too busy laughing at her to notice. She cleared her throat.
   Now resting his elbows on his thighs—special thanks to the exaggerated manspreading, he couldn't provide her the satisfaction of an answer.

   They'd been have these sessions—as Ms. Kölher briefly took to her time to declare every damned time—for six months. Yet, no progress.
  But it's not like she's bad at her job, he's bad at understanding her situation. In which, it was pretty textbook definition to 'villainous'. Through his eyes it was.

  Ares had been through an accident. Mom died, breadwinner dad died, but he doesn't remember dear mommy and daddy. Strangely, he's still him. He stills remember his favorite places, his favorite memories, but it's almost as if everyone who created those memories became irrelevant silhouettes destined to lead their lives in the background.

He couldn't bring himself to care about therapy.
If you were to compare how he was when he started, to how he is now, it's like putting an ant to the size of Andrew Tate's puny brain. Not much of a change.

If he wanted too, of course, things would happen, although he couldn't bring himself to really give much of a shit.
He was living with his so-called grandma, who threw catholicism down his throat along with baby photos of him and his parents. He had a twin sister, although she passed from cancer when they were five.
With all this tragic information, he almost feels obligated to care. But he doesn't know these people. Of course, at one point he did, although—if it wasn't obvious enough—he doesn't anymore.
His grandmother shoving stupid stories down his eardrums only made him hate it even even more. He understood where she was arriving from, truly.

"That's our time, then." Ms. Kölher stated, clearing her throat. Ares quickly nodded and left the room without much of a goodbye, then joined the windy weather outside, waiting for his uber.

The silver car rolled towards the entrance, and the driver rolled down his heavily tinted windows with a cigar and sunglasses wearing his face. "Ares?" Ares quickly nodded and settled into the vehicle.

They both sat in silence, neither in the mood to compare opinions on topics. Usually it was like this with Ares, and it's not like he was the quiet type, he was just selective with who he should show parts of his personality.

-

Today was finally her day. Her only chance at legally escaping this hellhole. Still wearing this obnoxious jumpsuit, I was practically thrown into the black van, and after that it was here to court.

-

Something about this driver gave me a strange feeling.

I'm not sure if it's the Adidas shirt and Nike shorts combo, or maybe it was his purple contacts. Either way, I finally felt eager to get home. Although this stoplight was never ending. And just as it turned green, a black van interrupted it's course. Yay.

-

  Suddenly Candy felt a jolt bringing her forwards (because that's what they usually do), she quickly put her hands in front of her chest, so she wouldn't face plant or anything cute like that.

  Instead of standing, she sat with her knees propped up to her chin to avoid, y'know, falling over and cracking a few bones.
  "You're a shit driver!" She screamed, heat slowly rising to her face as she started to understand the escalating panic of the situation. Her breath suddenly started moving faster than her mind, her thoughts racing faster than they should.
    Still on the greasy floor, she felt her fingers slowly separating from previously being severed together in front of her legs. She tried her hardest to maintain still, to shut out any negative thoughts, any gloom-ridden emotion, albeit it just made it worse.
   Tears piled upon her like bricks, then her trembling fingers quickly wiped them away, almost as if she was shoving them back into the dark.
   Then suddenly, she joined them in the dark.