They had nothing to say to each other. It was funny how a good thing could go bad so fast. Occasionally, she would steal glances of disdain toward him, and he would pretend that he was clueless to her existence. The sirens still wailed, but they had gotten used to the noise. Broken glass surrounded them, and they were both shivering in the cold.
It was the classic issue of a couple drowning their sorrow within each other. When they finally figured out that that was no basis for a relationship, it was too late to let go of each other.
She had been diagnosed with schizophrenia at age 13. The voices in her head had caused her to ruthlessly kill a total of three rabbits and one cat. None had been her own, and, by the time that she was 8, her single mother knew there was something very wrong with her child. So, as all other loving mothers would do, she sent her daughter to a sanatorium when she was 15.
“I didn't sign up to raise a psycho,” she'd mumble, the smell of alcohol fresh on her breath.
He was the average foster child. With a total of two shirts, one pair of jeans, and four pairs of underwear, he traveled from house to house.
“He's a trouble child,” they all told social services. “No one could ever take care of him.”
Once, he accidentally dropped a glass that he was drinking water out of. It was 5 P.M. By 9 P.M., he was taken out of the house. When he finally turned 18, he moved into the cheapest apartment he could find and took up a job at a grocery store.
That was where they had met. She was 18, and he was 19, approaching his first full year of working at the store. She was buying 14 boxes of Lucky Charms.
“They'll last me the month,” she told him, softly laughing at herself.
“No milk?” he asked, a small smile curving on his lips.
“I hate milk.”
They went on their first date that night. McDonald's was all that either of their budgets could afford. She worked as a housekeeping assistant at a lodge just outside of the city. He told her about all the families he had whisked through, and she told him about all the “crazies” she'd met in the sanatorium. They laughed, until she told him about how when she was finally released, she waited for her mother outside for hours. When 10:00 hit, she started to walk toward the last place she'd called home. After an hour and a half of walking, she got to the shabby apartment complex and knocked on the door. When no one answered, she realized the door was unlocked and walked in, looking for her probably passed out mother with anger.
It was the classic issue of a couple drowning their sorrow within each other. When they finally figured out that that was no basis for a relationship, it was too late to let go of each other.
She had been diagnosed with schizophrenia at age 13. The voices in her head had caused her to ruthlessly kill a total of three rabbits and one cat. None had been her own, and, by the time that she was 8, her single mother knew there was something very wrong with her child. So, as all other loving mothers would do, she sent her daughter to a sanatorium when she was 15.
“I didn't sign up to raise a psycho,” she'd mumble, the smell of alcohol fresh on her breath.
He was the average foster child. With a total of two shirts, one pair of jeans, and four pairs of underwear, he traveled from house to house.
“He's a trouble child,” they all told social services. “No one could ever take care of him.”
Once, he accidentally dropped a glass that he was drinking water out of. It was 5 P.M. By 9 P.M., he was taken out of the house. When he finally turned 18, he moved into the cheapest apartment he could find and took up a job at a grocery store.
That was where they had met. She was 18, and he was 19, approaching his first full year of working at the store. She was buying 14 boxes of Lucky Charms.
“They'll last me the month,” she told him, softly laughing at herself.
“No milk?” he asked, a small smile curving on his lips.
“I hate milk.”
They went on their first date that night. McDonald's was all that either of their budgets could afford. She worked as a housekeeping assistant at a lodge just outside of the city. He told her about all the families he had whisked through, and she told him about all the “crazies” she'd met in the sanatorium. They laughed, until she told him about how when she was finally released, she waited for her mother outside for hours. When 10:00 hit, she started to walk toward the last place she'd called home. After an hour and a half of walking, she got to the shabby apartment complex and knocked on the door. When no one answered, she realized the door was unlocked and walked in, looking for her probably passed out mother with anger.
