Cyril
Susan….
She was standing there outside the door, a statue of misplaced maternal concern, probably wondering why the "broken child" she had tried to defend was walking away with such a steady, rhythmic grace.
A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, a sharp, triumphant thing that I didn't bother to hide.
Making a fool out of Susan had become a delicious secondary hobby.
She had entered this house with her pearls and her soft smiles, draped in the arrogant assumption that she could step into the hollowed-out space my mother had left behind.
She thought she could "mother" me, mold me, and provide the soft touch that would tame my sharp edges.
She had no idea that she was living in a house of glass, and Alan and I were the ones throwing the stones.
Poor, sweet Susan, I tho
