Chapter Six

At the rise of the morning sun, you realise that you'll need to repeat this come the evening, but you prefer to banish such chilling thoughts to the back of your mind, content in languishing inside the air-conditioned taxi, the ethnic music of drums and weird yodelling lulling you into a comfortable sleep.

Yet, even in your dreams, you can not escape the humiliating tedium of your life, repeating the same actions and winding patrols that you prosecute in life, trapped in a cycle of stagnation and indignity.

It only further sours your mood that, when your cab finally reaches your apartment complex in Arroyo; and horridly speeds away in the aftermath of your exit (not that you blame him, the place is a shithole); you drag your fatigue-drunk body up the stairwells, into the elevator, and finally; to your apartment.

After opening the door with a long drag of your arm, you begin stumbling down the short corridor of your family abode and behold the sight of your sister making toast.

The girl looks shocked at your bruised and swollen appearance, unsure of what to do; like a deer caught in headlights, her body takes over, and she utilises that thin semblance of charisma she possesses.

To wave at you.

"Morning…"

"Chloe, is that my shirt?"

Clad in one of your worn t-shirts that hangs off the more petite girl as if it were a robe, you catch an eyeful of healthy tanned skin of her thighs and collarbone, whilst you are confident (or deluding yourself in believing so) that your sister is wearing underwear, physically, only your shirt exists to conceal her innocence.

She doesn't answer, her big doe-like eyes trapped behind those cumbersome glasses; she looks to the left and right, the toast getting burnt on the frying pan as she remains trapped beneath your gaze.

You know what? You don't want to get into this right now; shaking your head at the girl, you turn and stagger off to your room; you just want your bed right now.