Suddenly I want to take it back, but it’s too late, I am already diving toward the ground. I’m screaming so loud, I want to cover my own ears. I feel the scream living inside me, filling my chest, throat, and head.
It is behind a sliding panel in the hallway upstairs. Our faction allows me to stand in front of it on the second day of every third month, the day my mother cuts my hair. I sit on the stool and my mother stands behind m e with the scissors, trimming.
We have a set number of days to live you know? Or like, whatever, breaths to breathe. And you’ve got to enjoy all of them, even in the moments where you’re like, ‘I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to do this.’ Am I going to complain about it? No. I’m going to f-ing make it fun.