Iridescence perplexed of a copper so divine, the aftershock of her intervention left her mouth open-wide. A palpable overture endured before her progression or even the authentication of listening indicated the appropriate participants participation. A standalone banner had been tacked to the wall, in black thick paint it read “We’re here to help you”. Anger hid in the reflection of her pain, rendering the young protagonists brain to wish for the painfully old shag carpet below to swallow her whole. Thus, in a submissive but reluctant manner she released control.
One by one, they uttered deprecatingly and softly in voices that made her feel uncomfortable, unwelcome and unintentionally invalid. As though the shell of her body were an outline and within that countless empty years of yahoos and whitzers had branded her “the alcoholic”. They spoke as if they knew, as if what she’d been though spoke enough for them to decide her behavior had now been affecting them for too long. Becoming tired of being a nuisance her attention was grabbed by the door. Its heavy hinges, worn brass handle and chipped mahogany wood encapsulated every entrance and exit to the hell-hole she was now emotionally unable to escape from. She remembered buying it, or did she tell herself she had. For most of her memories, when recalled, could call out the insidious tone that this intervention continuously condoned.
They spoke for entire lifetimes of her imagination, reiterating the same boring words, but they’ll find out soon enough, because I’m not about to change. Not for them. Not for me. Indeed, certainly not for you.