After the FactMature


I sat on my bed, and held my tiny, old, rosary in my hands. I tossed it at the wall, and watched it fall to the ground. Out of the conor of my eye, I saw the outline of my good old' jerk friend(ish), Alcatraz. I looked over, and laughed.

He looked kinda scared, he was never scared. He never cursed, ether. Only to call me a bitch. He looked at me, confused. Than, knocked.

“Who is it?” I said. I turned around, and picked up my Laptop, and acted really busy. This sure to piss him off.

“God, it’s me.” He said.

“Do I know anyone named me? No. I do know somebody named Alcatraz, but he’s most likely off killing people, and not even finishing there blood.” I said. He walked in and sat on my bed.

“I’m sorry, Char. I really am. I didn’t mean it. Really, sorry I called you that, really. I know how you hate being called that.” I turned to face him. That was so not why I was pissed. He talked about the murder. Or murders. I suppose, but he had no idea what happened. I never talk about it really, only dropping hints like “I kinda know what that’s like,” or something when a report about a rape comes on.

“It’s fine, we all have our moments. Only..” I laid back on my bed. “you have no idea what happened after that. Or how I saw HIM kill my little sister. And brother. And my Father. And my friends.” He nodded.

“I know. I don’t, what happened after thourgh? Should I know something?”

The End

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