“Woman at Night”

girl_at_night_by_deathnote1qa-d982zfr

Title: “Woman at Night”

Medium: Oil Pastel

Description: This is a portrait of a woman. Her religion, personality and being is hidden, no matter what any stereotype may assume. The writing on the side is  فتاة في الليل ” which is Arabic for “Girl at Night.”

Please do not use without crediting me!

 

 

“Al-Ghorfa”

Story written by Franklin Rayeski – Please do not use without crediting me

Warning: Contains Graphic Content (gore, language)

Either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists. — George W. Bush. September 20th, 2001

          At dawn, I arise for Fajr, my morning prayer. I veil myself with my old black hijab and enter our prayer room; a room separated by tapestry that hangs from the ceiling. Here, there is a prayer mat facing the east, a Quran and my prayer beads lying still. I stand tall with my feet together facing the sun that has yet to rise. I lift my hands to the sides of my face and whisper:
          “Allahu Akbar.” God is great. I close my eyes, bow my head and put my hands to my heart as gunfire discharges outside my home. I flinch but keep myself steady. “Bismillaahir, Rahmaanir, Rahiim, Al-Hamdu Iillaahi Rabbil-Aalamiin: Ar-Rahmaanir-Rahiim; Maaliki Yawmid-Diin Iyyaka na-budu wa iyyaka nasta-iin.” In the name of God, the infinitely compassionate and merciful. Praise be to God, sustainer of all the worlds, the beneficent, the merciful. Owner of the day of judgment, to you alone do we give worth and from you alone do we seek.
          “Shoot that motherfucker!” A man screams from outside; his curse is followed by the sounds shattering glass and discharging bombs. I take a deep breath and hold in my sorrow.
          “Ihdinas-Siraatal, Mustaqiim,” Guide us on the straight path. I softly continue, “Siraatal-lazinna an-amta alay-him Gayril-magzuubi alay-him wa laz-zaaalliin.” The path of those who have received your grace, not the path of those who cause wrath, nor of those who wonder astray. I repeat myself, then bow and continue. A loud explosion erupts and shakes the house and I collapse to my knees. I sob as I lay my head on the floor for Sujud and ask for help from my god. I sit up, continue, and then turn my head to the left towards the rebels and rioters, I recite: “Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah.” I turn to my right towards the Americans who have come to fight them, I recite: “Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah.” Peace and blessings of God be upon you.
          The house rattles as I leave the holy room and comfort my awoken children. Najib screams from his crib; I pick him up and hold him close to my breast as Amira comes and hugs my legs.
          “La taqlaq, la taqlaqi.” Don’t worry, don’t worry. I assure them with a soothing voice. I guide them to the cushions in the middle of our living quarters and we sit down. I rock Najib in my arms and whisper to them both: “Wasaf tajid lana ‘abadaan huna.” They will never find us in here.
          I serve their breakfast as the sun rises: stale bread and dirty water. Amira and I eat—and after, I nurse Najib—with hellish noises beating and blaring around our confinement. Besides eating and praying, not much is done other than us holding each other, in a corner, as far away from the door as possible. With the small amount of power I own, I stay strong and comfort my babies, shielding them and always asking our god for salvation.
          It all began after a long rebellion in our town—that’s when we began to fortify our home. My dear Hazael did well to leave and scavenge for food for our family. Even on the brink of this deadly revolution, we still managed to smile during those days. The conflict escalated when United States became involved.. We all were saved, we thought and continued to think until one of their bullets drove into my dear Hazael—for any man with a turban was an enemy to them. After his death, I never stopped crying, but I still managed to leave my home just a few more times to get food, then came back to permanently close us off from the rest of the world.
          God knows how long we will have to be imprisoned in this room. And God knows we will starve ourselves before we leave. All the other refugees have already made it out of this country and in the safe hands of somewhere better. It’s too late to leave, both armies are too close. If we leave this room, we will die, if they find this room, we will die. We must stay in this room until this fight ceases or until our dead bodies are dragged away. The rioters want to kill us and the Americans want to kill us. Our only ally is God.
          I do not know what I long for more: the rioters to win so we can live where we have always lived, or the Americans, so they can take us someplace better. But we are enemies to both of them! I long to leave this cell with my children and to finally escape this horrid hell! If nothing more, I wish for both sides to die with their wrathful guns to their violent foreheads! I wish for an end to this war or an end to all their lives! I want everything to go away! The bombs, the bullets, the hellfire, the evil men, all of them; I want them to vanish from this earth so my babies can be safe!
          Why can God not grant me this wish? Why can’t he save us? I’ve prayed every salat and have given all my alms and have done all of my fasting and have sacrificed more than enough—is that not enough? Is death our only escape? To leave, will I have to put my children’s life to a halt? Is that my burden I carry? Or will I have to suffer from the burden of waiting here until I starve or some man—bearded, cloaked and brown or not—bursts in and shoots us down?
          I hold my sweet Najib to my face and my darling Amira to my chin. I shake and cry with my babies crying in unison. How long must we go through this? I ask myself. How long must we suffer? Something explodes outside, men scream back and forth, guns cry their deafening bullets and tanks roll in waves. The tank fires and something very close to us explodes; our house rattles. The grip on my children tightens. I whimper to myself softly and my children copy me: “La ilaha illa allh. Nauzobillah, Astaghfirullah.” There is no god but God. God protect us. I seek refuge with God.
          A man breaks through the front door and we shriek. He aims his weapon at us and I raise my hands.
          “Min fadlik la taqtalna!” Please don’t kill us! I scream as I shove my children behind me. I crawl forward to the man’s feet. “Qate li wa’atfal baldi!” Spare me and my babies! I raise my hand to him and he lowers his gun to me. Bullets are cast through my body and I collapse onto the ground with everything ringing in my head.
          My babies wail in the corner of the room and the man follows their trail. I force myself to move and protect them but my body stays motionless. Blood flows out of me and I can feel my life slowly draining. I gargle my words and try and try and fail to reach for my children.
          “Min fadlik.” Please. I spit out. “Alssamah lahum aleaysh.” Let them live. The man turns and walks back up to me. I raise my hand one last time and close my eyes—I know I will not leave here alive. Yet still, I pray. I pray in those final moments that my babies can get away—that maybe, just maybe, if they get away from this man, they will be able to leave this cursed land and refuge somewhere safe.

“Black Heart”

Poem by Franklin Rayeski – Please do not use without crediting me

I hold the black heart as it bleeds.
It states “secrets” on it’s side.
It holds all the truths and lies you’ve told.
It holds all the tears you’ve ever cried.

I hold the black heart that you gave;
It bleeds between and around my fingers.
It beats solemnly, slowly and silently,
As your final words, in my head, lingers.

I enclose the black heart in my palm
And black blood begins to pour out.
It stings and breaks all my skin,
It burns away all my doubt.

I open my palm and out it flies—
The black heart was no black heart,
But only a shriveled little black bird
Simply tearing itself apart.

“Art”

Poem written by Franklin Rayeski – Please do not use without crediting me

It finds its way into your life like a snake,
Slithering silently and wrapping itself around you,
Consuming you like a merciless ocean.
But there is no pain, only joy.

It sits still in the dim caverns under bridges,
Painted in vibrant colors and expressions,
Clashing against the pallid brick walls.
A portrait of anger, angst and sadness.

It waits in the glistening brown hollow woods;
Trees twisting and dancing with their limbs outstretched,
And the sun peaking through their green leaves.
They’re waiting to be captured.

It screams from blown out speakers from that garage,
Or from the speakers in the headphones of a stranger,
Or from the speakers on a glistening stage.
It’s symphonies to soliloquies in amplitudes and waves.

It’s the stitched cloth on the backs of bone white mannequins,
And the glassy tiles on the ceilings of arabesque mosques.
It’s the delightful texture of rich gourmet rolls and meat.
The catalyst that evokes emotion from the soul.

It is an empty space, a blank canvas, waiting to be filled,
Clay waiting to be molded, songs to be sung,
Stories to be written, dances to be preformed.
That empty space, it waits in anticipation.

It lies in front of our eyes and ears and in our mouths against our tongues.
It entwines around us, in us, in front of us,
For us to capture it, or describe it, or recreate it.
It belongs there, with emotion and openness.

It belongs here, in that space; Art.
In everywhere we dare to look.
Inside the imagination in our head,
And in the ventricles of our heart.

“The Siren’s Grotto”

Story written by Franklin Rayeski – Please do not use without crediting me  

Warning: Graphic Content (Gore)

          In the mist of the cold November, the Nonincantus floated across the bitter sea aiming towards the Cape of Good Hope on the tip of Africa. The carrack’s destination, like most, was to India to trade English goods for Indian jewels. Since the exploration of Marco Polo, every European has wanted to get their hands on Asian riches. The captain, Dominique Quinn, and the crew of the Nonincantus were no exception. In the bleak daylight, they followed the route that was laid down by Vasco de Gama and made their way along the coast of Africa.
          As Captain Quinn checked is astrolabe—clarifying that it was about noon—the carrack rolled quietly into a dangerous fog. The crew members immediately began to panic and started to hastily change course to turn around. Quinn, after realizing what his crew was up to, raised his voice in a loud yell to stop all the crewmen from what they were doing.
         “Halt!” he screamed, “Halt all of you! What be the cause this hysteria!? Speak, one of you before me, speak up! We will not turn back, we will move forward into the fog, make it to the cape and turn toward India, then come back with a full ship’s cargo of riches! Understood?” The captain’s second-in-command, Herald Wrath, ran up the stairs to the ship’s helm. He came up to the captain and spoke on the crewmen’s behalf.
         “Captain, with all due respect,” he spoke shyly, “tis’ bad luck to be sailing in a fog like this.”
         “And worse luck to come all this way with tradable goods only to come back to England with the same materials we had when we left,” Quinn countered, “torch the lanterns, if you must, and I will sail farther from the shore line and out of the shallows.”
         “But sir, we might stray from the route and, without it being night and no stars to be our guide, we will all parish in the sea!”
         “I have more fear of not reaching my destination than a death by the sea. I am a captain; I rule the sea and I do not fear over what I reign; just as I have no fear of mutiny.”—Quinn then turned to the rest of the crewmen—“Now get back to your stations and make haste to the cape! Ignite the lanterns and sail away!” The crewmen, with anxiety still in their veins, went back to their work and changed their course toward the Cape of Good Hope once more. Wrath wearily obeyed his captain and ordered men to light the lanterns at the ends of the ship. The mist and the gray sea reflected the flames of the lanterns as the ship glided through the water.
         Everyone on the boat was holding back fear—everyone except the captain, of course—and because of that fear, something terrible was being planned. The crew knew the captain was an arrogant man, but they never knew he’d be sinister enough to kill every man on that ship by leading them off the course and into oblivion. The sailors all knew that they would not be able to sail through the fog; they knew they would go off course and end up who-knows-where. They knew they had to stop the captain; they had to convince him, or toss him if he doesn’t listen—they were going to revolt and rebel.
         Quinn, above, held onto the ship’s wheel and hopelessly focused on his compass and map. They had been away from England for six months and it would take about another five months to reach India then another year to come back. Moving at about 6 knots—not including the wind’s and sea’s influence—the captain went along his course with ease. The cape was close and the roughest waters were ahead, but the captain was prepared. To the captain, the fog was just a minor inconvenience compared to the hellish seas lying ahead; he was still sure that the voyage would have no further difficulties; to him, everything was going according to plan. What he did not see coming, however, was his crewmen. Herald Wrath slowly made his way to the captain to speak his concerns.
         “Captain Quinn,” he spoke whist Quinn paid little attention to him, “the crewmen—and I—are still antsy about continuing the voyage. We all think that it would just be best—and safest—to turn back around, make port somewhere here in Africa, then sail around the cape another day.” Quinn rolled his eyes and glared at his second-in-command angrily.
         “Mister Wrath,” Quinn’s words spat out of his mouth like a dull, yet blazing, fire, “I told all of you before and I will say it once, and only once, more: we will continue our course as planned because, if we do what you plead, we will get off schedule. Do you understand?”—he waited for a reply, but Wrath gave none—“I spoke no suggestion; I command you to answer your captain! I ask: do you understand, Mister Wrath?”—Wrath nodded but stayed silent—“Good, now get back to minding the crew!” Wrath stayed put and, before Quinn could put him in his place, all of the lanterns on the boat extinguished. By then it was nightfall, so the ship turned pitch black. The next thing Quinn could remember was several men grabbing at him, knocking his instruments to the floor and turning the wheel in an unexpected turn. He was being dragged down from the helm and onto the deck where he was lifted into a row-boat, given one ore and dropped off to the port of the ship into the sea.
         Quinn, taken by complete surprise, felt the mixed emotions of hate and sorrow and fear—hatred of the crew, sorrow for himself and fear of death. He was no longer the captain of the Nonincantus; he was now simply a poor lost soul of the sea. He clutched onto his ore with his life and, with his first instinct, paddled in the direction of land. The crew on the ship, however, lit the lanterns again and searched for the captain’s instruments to turn around.
         Quinn paddled and paddled but the seas were vicious and merciless. Waves crashed into the side of his boat and rocked it violently; he barely could keep himself on the boat. Water poured in and soon almost all of the boat was underwater. Quinn tried to concentrate but his mind was swimming with the feeling of betrayal. All he could think about is: how could his crew do such a thing to their captain who, if they had just done what was planned, would’ve made them rich.
         Within the sound of the waters crashing and the wind whipping, Quinn suddenly thought he heard a soft melody; a song far off into the distance being sung sweetly by a woman. He thought the idea was just preposterous and tried to focus on staying alive until he saw a light. He looked behind him in the direction the ship was going and that’s when he saw it: fire—a blazing and ravenous inferno breathing from the sea and spitting to the sky. He saw the Nonincantus with stone shards and spikes cutting through its hull and mast and roaring flames consuming the carrack and whatever was left of its crew. They must’ve taken a wrong turn, Quinn thought, I guess we were closer to the shore than we thought. Once they crashed, the lanterns must’ve shattered and caught the ship ablaze. As he thought this, he turned forward and saw the sharp edges of the rocks before him. He dug his ore into the water and tried to maneuver around them, but it was hopeless. Quinn then jumped off of the boat just before it shattered like fragile glass against the rocks.
         Underwater, the world was black and cold. The chilling sea bit and tore at his skin and Quinn was put where he couldn’t feel the bottom of the ocean or the surface. He stayed still silently underwater for as long as he could. Above him water gently pushed against the rocks and everything was soft and delicate. It wasn’t until the lack of oxygen rushed through his mind and he thrust his body upward. He burst through the ocean surface and gasped in a large breath of air. Over the water was the opposite of under. It was a hurricane of water and wind and fog and fire everywhere. The sea’s waves pushed him toward the rocks, but then the wind pulled him away. The fog and salty water penetrated his lungs when he breathed quickly and fear was his only thought. He scrambled through the water to push to some shore, some land; he pushed to get to some safe haven to survive the hellish sea. An envying wave soon burst against the nearby cliff and threw Quinn straight into the sea of rocks.
         Quinn went back underwater and gently swam forward with the little strength he had left. He swam smoothly with his feet stretching out into the endless void underneath him until they touched land. Quinn shifted his head upward to look over water. It was no longer like a hurricane and there were no longer any hungry waves or starving winds or blazing infernos. The world was quiet and soft and black. He slowly swam forward in a neck-deep pool guarded by sharp rocks. He continued to swim and slowly the land beneath him lifted as he reached an invisible shore. Soon, he was in waist-deep water. He looked around and saw nothing suspicious or strange, in fact, he was elated to have found a safe sanctuary away from the open sea.
         Suddenly, a noise broke the silence. A low soft noise of strings vibrating against each other hummed around him, but he couldn’t pick out the source. He listened for a few moments until he recognized the instrument: a lyre. Quinn was utterly confused on why a lyre would be playing in a secluded spot like this near the Cape of Good Hope. At first, he feared that it would’ve been a cannibalistic or unfriendly native, but he then knew that it couldn’t have been for the lyre was invented in Athens; nowhere near Africa—unless, of course, if it had been stolen by a native from a marooned European or a shipwreck. He feared the unknown around him for several minutes until a soft woman’s voice began to sing:

Help me sailor that I see
Help this poor girl lost at sea
Help, oh please, oh help me
Come, brave sailor, set me free

         Reassured that the song was in English, Quinn gave a sigh of relief. The woman’s voice had a much higher pitch than the tune of her lyre, but the song was soft and sweet and gentle and alluring. Quinn, in a gentle frenzy, searched around to find who was singing the song.
         “Who’s there?” he called out in longing, “Oh, gentle madam, sing once more! Your voice is so sweet and calming; please sing again!” After a few moments of disappointing silence, the mysterious voice sang again just as sweetly as before:

Avoid the rocks with a spiked peak
Come to me, so we can meet
Oh dear sailor, you look weak
Lay beside me and I’ll sing a song so sweet

         With that, a light penetrated the darkness. Quinn looked up at the blinding small light. After a few moments of seeing nothing around the glare, his eyes adjusted to see an unclothed woman standing on top of a smooth patch of rocks holding a lantern in one hand and a lyre in the other. Bewitched by her beauty, he trudged through the water as fast as he could to get to her. Once close enough, he could note every detail about this mysterious feral woman.
         Her hair was raven—black with a green reflection that kindly fell to her shoulders and down to her breasts—and her eyes were a sparkling sky blue. Her lips were soft and gentle and her face was that of a perfectly soft sculpture that had been smoothed as much as it could with dense sandpaper. Her skin was as pale as the moon and her body was a slim hourglass figure. She stood up straight with an inhuman posture and she herself had an aura that was gentle and compelling; virtuous and pure. It was then that he saw white feathered wings stemming from her shoulders. He knew it then: she was an angel!
         Compelled by her heavenly presence, he lifted up his arms for her to bring him to heaven so he could spend an eternity with her. She placed her lantern and lyre on the ground and obeyed: she lifted him with her holy might out of the water and into her grasp. They then stood on the long dense rock holding hands. The woman then let go, picked up her tools and began to walk away, but beckoned him to follow. As she walked along the rocky shore, she, without strumming her lyre, sang again:

Oh dear boy, captain almighty
Who has swept me off my feet
Come, my savior of piety
I shall reward you for your defeat

         She then found a spot where the shore met the cliff. Here, at the bottom of the cliff, a rock was placed there naturally and the woman then sat down on top of it as a seat. With Quinn following her, she patted the seat next to her and beckoned him closer. She placed the lantern on the ground and placed the lyre beside her. Once Quinn sat beside her, she opened out her palm, and he grasped it. She wrapped her other arm around his shoulder and gently pulled his head onto her lap. She cradled him there like a child and he let her. He looked past her and looked to the stars overhead, expecting that soon she will fly him up to meet those stars and be at peace.
         “Oh angel,” he spoke softly to her, she looked down at him and their eyes met, “is it my time?”—the woman nodded—“Then please, sweet angel of death, sing me a lullaby as we ascend to heaven.” The woman nodded her head once more and began to sing without her lyre:

All good men get their reward
For all the blood at the tip of their sword

         Her voice was different. She sang in a lower note and her sweet voice only made her melody grow dark. The woman tightened her grasp on the man and her gentle smile turned to a maniacal one.

Not just victory after a war
Not just praise from their lord

          Quinn became uneasy and slowly began to try to struggle out her grasp but it was no use: she had a powerful gasp on him; he wasn’t going anywhere.

Not just gifts for the poor
Nor for acting out of allure

 

          “Please stop!” he screamed at her, “Please! Let me go!” He started to panic and wanted to leave, but she kept him down. She didn’t let go and only continued to sing.

Not just surviving a horrid downpour
And not just finding a perfect cure

         He knew then that she was no angel. He knew what she was: a seductive woman who lures men into her grasp and then kills then and eats them: half-woman-half-bird: a siren! He knew then that he was going to die.

 

Some rewards are not just for knights
Some are served best in gore
Some rewards are worth the flights
Rewards, like you good men, are scarce in store

 

Sleep now, softly, close both eyes

Fall asleep soundly to my sweet song

Dream of candy, not of demons or lies

Fear not, sailor, you won’t suffer long

         Her nails dug into his skin and he began bleeding. Her eyes glistened as she opened her mouth wide open to reveal her razor sharp teeth. She thrust her head at him and bit into his torso. Quinn began screaming in pain and struggled to free himself but he was as good as dead. Blood splattered on the rocks, on the lyre and on the lantern. The black water that reflected the stars dyed red and Quinn’s screams echoed past the rocks, past the shipwreck, past the fog and to the rest of the sea.
         The siren tore the man limb from limb with her mouth like a wolf would a rabbit—a lion would a zebra—a cat would a bird—a bird would a snake—like a snake would a mouse. She ate what she could of the man just
as her sisters had done to the other sailors. Once she was finished, she dropped the limp corpse and let him tumble off of the rock and into the water for the fish to finish. Blood rolled down her face and body, so she got into the water to wash it all off. She stood back up and retrieved her lyre and lantern and flew off into the moonlit tides. She flew miles above the clouds and far from the Cape of Good Hope. She then flew in circles with her sisters, like vultures, and sought out their next prey.

“Perspective”

Poem written by Franklin Rayeski – Please do not use without crediting me.

He kisses his children on the forehead,
And turns to his wife and hugs her goodbye.
They exchange some last few prayers before
He goes off to war, goes off to die.

It might be worth it, for his leader says:
“All great men die for a cause.”
Perhaps, for their country to protect the peace
And to help enforce their ridiculous laws.

Commercials and speakers and movies
All praise those who go to war;
Heroes they are, idols to our kids,
Guardian angels that guard the door.

Some peers from college have gone off,
And he seems to have followed the path
Placed down by his father and grandfather
Who died from the enemy’s wrath.

“You’re protecting your country
And you’ll die for it too;
Come along, sign up, it’s fun
We want you!”

Veterans adored and paraded,
Casualties are mourned on more than one occasion.
He comes forth and swallows his pride;
War: the route for debt’s evasion

Drinking did nothing, nor did ignoring—
He had to go, this was his only choice.
Long cold nights are being awaited,
Now’s not the time for a concerned voice.

So they give him a gun and ammunition,
And encourage the racism to come.
He leaves his family behind
And goes off to kill the American scum.

 

“Id and Ego”

Story written by Franklin Rayeski – Please do not use without crediting me

“Hey there.”
“Hello.”
“How are you?”
“Alive…for the most part.”
“Oh.”
“And you?”
“I’m feeling good.”
“That’s nice.”
“I’m not very good at small talk.”
“Neither am I.”


“So you look nice today.”
“Huh?”
“You; you are dressed nicely.”
“Thank you. You look nice as well.”
“I should; I just spent the past while fixing my hair.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I need to get it cut.”
“It’s too late for that.”
“I know, but still. Maybe I can get a haircut…you know, later.”
“Later?”
“Yeah…after this.”
“That’s right. I never thought about what’d happen after.”
“I like to think it’ll get better from here.”
“I doubt.”
“Yeah, me too.”


“Can we get this over with?”
“What?”
“This. I’m tired of waiting.”
“Don’t ask me, I’m not in control.”
“I was asking rhetorically.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, are we just going to do this?”
“Do what?”
“This.”
“Talking?”
“No, small-talking; us going back and forth like this.”
“Well, what do you want to talk about then?”
“I want to talk about what’s going to happen.”
“I don’t want to. It scares me.”
“Too bad. We’re here. It’s going to happen.”


“Do you get the feeling…?”
“What?”
“The feeling that people are…listening?”
“Why would anyone listen to us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why would anyone want to listen to us?”
“Beats me.”
“It’s absurd.”
“Should we tell them then?”
“Who?”
“Well, whoever’s listening.”
“Why?”
“We got nothing better to do.”
“Okay? I don’t want to. But you can.”
“Really?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Okay…here it goes:…”
“…Well?”
“I can’t think of anything to say.”


“It’s almost time. You ready?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“What about them?”
“Who?”
“The people listening…”
“There’s no one there.”
“Are you sure?”
“No one is ever there.”
“…that’s not true.”
“Look me in the eye and say it isn’t.”
“…I can’t.”
“Thought so.”
“Do you think they’ll listen after…?”
“They always do.”
“Why not tell them now? Please?”
“Go ahead.”
“I can’t.”
“And I don’t want to.”
“…fine.”
“Anytime now…”
“I’m sad. There. I said it.”
“No…say all of it.”
“We’re sad.”
“Anything else?”
“No…”
“Have they listened?”
“Maybe…”
“Okay…it’s almost time.”


“I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“But you got ready. And you said you would.”
“I change my mind.”
“Fine: stay with your imaginary friends.”
“But if you go, I’ll-…”
“I know, I know.”
“Please don’t go.”
“I can’t stay. I’m sorry.”
“Just talk to them, the people listening…”
“No.”
“Please?”
“I said: no.”
“Why can’t you!?”
“Don’t yell at me!”
“Then talk to them! Tell them everything!”
“No!”
“Why can’t you!? They can help!”
“I don’t want to be helped!”
“They can stop you!”
“I don’t want to be stopped!”
“They’re listening now!”
“Even if they were…they wouldn’t care…”
“God! You’re so…so…stubborn! And rude and one-sided! I…I-…!”
“Say it!”
“I-…I-…!”
“I dare you to say it! After everything! Say it!”
“I-…!”
“Go on!”
“I hate you!”
“…I hate you too…”