Whir, whir, whir. I try to concentrate on the sound of the ceiling fan. The air gently blows onto my skin and caresses it lovingly.
Whir, whir, whir. That's all I want to hear and feel. Not the screaming in my head, not rush of green envy in my veins. I saw something I shouldn't. Or perhaps it was none of my business anyway.
But one thing I know, it scratched the surface of my concealed, dark heart and punctured a hole for poison to seep through. It seeps through my body, slides into my brain, spreads over me like a disease.
A disease.
Whir, whir, whir. The only physical solace I have now. And the mind takes over, and the matter don't matter any more.
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