KARIMA HEART
I climbed the stairs, my legs trembling like something electric was crawling under my skin.
Two things were clear in my head: First, whatever I would say in my defense had better not trigger Malcom, and second, I can't afford to get him any angrier than he already was.
He walked in first, me trailing behind with my bag clutched tight against me like some kind of shield. The door clicked shut, and there he was, already seated in the single armchair. The one no one else ever dared touch. Then again, hardly anyone ever stepped foot inside his room.
That was Malcom, strange in ways most people mistook for arrogance, and some even tagged him as a narcissist. But being his sister, I knew better. He lived in the grey areas. Not a full-blown narcissist, not exactly normal either.
