“I don’t want to live anymore.” I said loudly, my tone whiny and complaining, just like how it always sounded.
“Then, go kill yourself. None’s stopping you.” The old forty year old woman replied. Her white loose gown was showing off too much of her wrinkled cleavage, making me wrinkle my nose in disgust.
“I hate you, Zeda.” I grumbled. “I hate everyone. If my heart was a beaker, this feeling of hate would be overflowing from it, going through my veins to my brain and polluting it horribly.” I shook my head in self-pity. “I don’t want to survive anymore.” I said
“Go kill yourself. I don’t understand what’s stopping you.” Zeda repeated, with her mouth full of the bite of sandwich she’d just taken. “Stop bothering me.” She added.
I looked around the room, hoping something interesting would catch my eye.
But there wasn’t anything irregular.
The huge cafeteria was painted white. Too white. White enough to cause dizziness. There were a lot of people sitting around on the cold and white marble benches keeping their food-plates on the white tables. Almost everyone was dressed in white.
It made me sick.
“I hate that there’s no color here.” I muttered. “The lack of color in this place kills me every day. I just wish I could see some colorful things, like flowers or paintings. I never thought I’d miss seeing a rainbow this much.”
“Quit whining.” My acquaintance said. “Just shut up and eat your food. You know you’re not getting any after four.”
“I’m not hungry. I hate the food here. I miss my Mom’s cooking.” I sighed, in order to ignore the stab of pain on my left side.
“If you’re not eating, can I have your dinner?” Zeda asked, hopefully.
“Yeah. Go on.” I said, handing over my food to her.
“You should eat, you know.” Zeda said hesitantly. “You skip too many meals.”
“I’m never hungry and you always are. It’s not skipping meals, I’m only feeding you.” I defended myself, weakly. “Feeding the hungry is never wrong. My Mom used to say that.” I sighed again.
“She sounds like an amazing person.” Zeda said unwillingly. She looked down at her plate and silently talked to herself, about her own kids who had been killed in a terrorist movement during the time of some revolution in her own country in Asia.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
I know that I’ve asked her this question so many times but I always forget the strange, unfamiliar name.
“I..I don’t remember..I think it was Iran or maybe Iraq. I’m not sure. I think I lived in a city called Esfahan..Or not. I’m not sure.” Her face held a strange expression, like she was remembering something else. Then suddenly, it twisted into a rueful smile. “I can see so many colors there.” She said. “It’s so beautiful, Kiera. So pretty. Fascinating…” She trailed off.
Suddenly, her face changed. The small smile in her lips slipped away. Instead a set of frown replaced it. Her eyebrows were drawn together in concentration and confusion.
“What?!” She screamed, making me jump from the cold marble bench.
A wave of fear washed through me mixed with guilt. I should not have talked about home with her. We don’t have a place we can call ours anymore, I repeated to myself. We are a social burden, something that must be gotten rid of. We are dangerous and pathetic beings. We need other people’s help and support. Most of all, we are shelter less and weak. I shouldn’t have talked about home with her, because she don’t have one anymore. She’s homeless.
YOU ARE READING
Monsters Are Us
Teen Fiction❝What they did to me was monstrous. And they created a monster out of it. I'm a monster. I'm always going to be this monster. No one can change me, not even you. Not even the whole world combined. Because I've been cursed by a monster. I've been cur...
