The argument with Lecter that my brain puts on repeat like some vexatious, looping record  Home… Home, he said. 

A bitter laugh escapes my lips. By turning down the chauffeur, I gave myself a chance to walk home and just think. Headphones on, queue the music.

A minute later, a headache hits. Headphones off. I begin speaking to myself because if I don’t, I feel like I might explode.

“It’s almost cute how they actually believe that their silly act can fool me. Funny even. But guess what, they’re all terrible actors and actresses, to the last person in whatever fake family tree I was taught to trust.” Conversations with myself are normal symptoms of me being close to losing it. 

“They’re insane. Or maybe it’s just me. Then again, it can’t be. There’s no… No warm feeling or whatever you call it when we’re in the same room. The air becomes suffocating. A sickly feeling arises from the very pits of my stomach. What’s more are their random acts of kindness, the all-smiles situations I constantly get put in… It’s a sham, a pretence, a mockery of my being, and every other synonym of ‘fake’ in existence in the Oxford English Dictionary.”

“You sound like the biggest idiot on the planet. I get second-hand embarrassment, you know. Shame on you.”

And there it is; the sickeningly familiar voice of the constantly blasé and deliberately irksome she-devil. Just a few more steps to my room, but this just had to happen. I internally cursed at the Gods and let out an exasperated sigh.

“Who are you to call yourself my sister when you voluntarily worsen my already bad day on a daily basis,” I complained in a loud, most irritating voice I have to offer.

“Who were you talking about?”

“Nothing. No one.”

“Work on your tone. Those words won’t fool anybody.”

I let out a deep sigh, rubbing my nape as I reluctantly turned 90 degrees to my right, leaning my back against the concrete wall covered in textured naval. I faced the ground. In the peripheral vision of my right eye, I could see Judy holding up a white, seemingly flashy suit and a blurred, colour matching pair of trousers. 

“I know what this is, and I’m not doing it,” I blatantly stated, exaggerating the not bit. 

I turn my head slightly to face her. A wide I-don’t-give-a-damn smile spread across her chiselled face. I hate to admit it but her looks are no joke. Even I get goosebumps from staring at her for too long. 

Although despite having the physique so many people crave — and would literally try anything and everything just to obtain it  — she has absolutely no interest in dating and relationships. None. Zero. I mean she does the usual ‘girl things’ like simpering over Jamie Dornan and Ryan Gosling, reading magazines that feature flawless profiles of stick-figured models in their bathing suits, complaining to me about how dry her skin is, or... I’ll just stop here since talking about it will ruin somebody’s day. 

My point is that she’s girly enough, yet she has this predominant tomboy side to her personality. She’s got her own ways in conveying her disinterest in any potentially intimate relationship. As a cultured male myself, I wouldn’t date a lass with temperamental issues or is habitually presumptuous of things, hence the reason why I question the troubles many guys go through to get with Judy. A life without freedom is like a latte without steamed milk. Bitter and dark. And you just can’t call that a latte, now can you. To label her a player wouldn’t be very accurate. I’d call her an aromantic if anything. 

“I’m not asking.”

“An early refusal to show my discontent in being featured in another one of your blog posts.”

“I’ll make you do it anyway.”

The statement made me blink a couple of times as I contemplated past events that could’ve led her to say those words. And it hit me. 

“Please tell me you’re not being serious.” My shoulders drooped in annoyance. “There’s no way Mother chose a horse. She has every reason not to.”

“Mothers are full of surprises.”

“You pulled strings.” I narrowed my eyes.

“I did the necessary.” She juts out her chin.

“You cheated. That’s not countable in a bet.”

“Bet’s a bet.”