That Girl with the Pen

In the dining room I sat far away from him

Damien. I remember every single sound about him. Every time he passed by me I could hear the sound of his breathing and I pictured his large flared nostrils which never closed up and his ears from which long Grey hair sprouted. Many were the nights I fantasized about shooting him accidentally while we were out there looking for the goods. In my mind I must have killed him a thousand times.


The nights were hot and moist and the giant mosquitoes buzzed around us taking turns with the rats which nibbled on our toes. Every time he passed by me I was hit by an immediate fit of anger and sometimes panic at the thought that he might kill me before I killed him.


In the dining room I sat far away from him. Always at the opposite side of whatever chair he picked. But even from across the distance, I could hear the sound of him chewing his food. To be clear, Damien had never specifically wronged me. But I kept remembering how he had called me a rich little naive self entitled boy who didn’t belong in a war for men.


I hater the sound of ice cubes clinking around in his plastic cup. He used the same cup and walked past me multiple times a day and I didn’t understand how the ice was so loud when he walked by. I wanted to smack the cup out of his hand.


But I could not. One could be severely punished for the lightest offense.


Damien and I had one time drawn the straws to serve as the water rats for that week. The water rat was easily the worst assignment.



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