ANDRÉ BAUDELAIRE
The heated glare that was etched on my face felt like it was flaming up the fireplace even more. I was so convinced that the crackling and popping sounds it made now and then were thriving under my burning gaze. The more I peered at it, the harder it burned like the rage I had bottled up in me, threatening to shatter into a thousand pieces at the slightest poke.
It was the only source of light in the vast grey-themed Victorian room, illuminating it so dimly that my gaze could barely catch any other thing in the room—or it could be because I was far too immersed in my thoughts and wasn't in touch with my surroundings. I took a sip of my whiskey, throwing my head backwards on the chair I was slouched on, trying to control the whirlwind of emotions that ate me from the insi
