“I really can’t stand you,” I hissed.

He was surprisingly calm despite the two of us being in an argument.

“Then why are you still listening to me?”

I didn’t really have an answer for that.

“If I’m such an idiot, why are you willing to listen to what I have to say?”

“I’m not,” I snapped. “There’s a difference between listening to you and letting you talk.”

“Then how are you following along so well?”

I didn’t really have an answer for that either.

I paused to come up with a response but by the time I came up with one, it had already been too long to answer.

I only sighed.

His expression softened. “Why do you pretend you hate me?”

“I don’t pretend! I do hate you!” I barked.

Did I mean it? No.

Was I lying to him? Yes.

Was I lying to myself? Also yes.

I wanted to hate him for the rest of my life after what he’d done but he wasn’t making it easy.

He frowned. “You don’t hate me as much as you say you do.” His voice was a bit quieter than before, suggesting that I had gotten to him a little.

“Yes, I do! And you know it!” I yelled. “I hate you just like everyone else does!”

His body tensed a little. “At least I don’t kill people,” His tone turned harsh. “At least I don’t become friends with people through fear.”

My fists clenched. “I don’t use fear for that!”

That had pissed me off more than anything else during this argument.

He might as well have said that I act like my brother.

“Really? Then why is it that everyone tip-toes around you?”

I scoffed. “At least I have friends.”

“At least I don’t have anger issues that I’ll never solve. You’re so easily swayed by rage.”

“At least I’m not a thief! At least I’m not in debt!”

“At least I have morals!”

“At least I’m not a street rat!”

“At least I’m not a tyrant who bosses people around!”

“At least I have a family!”

When he didn’t throw another insult, I added, “at least I’m not an orphan!”

He faltered, his expression fading from angry to something more complicated.

It was a mix of what seemed to be sadness, anger, and fear.

I paused. “I didn’t- I didn’t mean to say that.” I spat, though I refused to apologize.

I wouldn’t apologize to HIM. Not unless I absolutely had to.

He didn’t respond. He just looked at the ground.

I huffed. Then my opinion— for no apparent reason— changed.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered.

He still didn’t respond.

I sighed. “Calm down, it’s not like it’s your fault.”

His face twisted in pain.

It was when tears started to form in his eyes when I realized that I didn’t exactly know what happened. All I knew is that they had been murdered.

And they were murdered in front of him when he was seventeen.

He stared at the ground, tears streaming down his face.

He looked like the scene was replaying in his mind over and over again in an endless loop, hypnotizing him in a way.

Maybe it was his fault. Maybe he just blamed himself. Whatever it was, I didn’t care.

I was focused on the awful words that had just come out of my mouth.

I took a step forward. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t-“

He wiped the tears away and glanced at me. “I’m done with this. You know where to find me.”

As he walked away, I was slowly coming to my senses.

I was angry. I never meant what I said. I was blinded by anger and rage; just like he had pointed out.

He had been right. Again.

I hated myself for what I’d done and cursed under my breath.

I only hoped that I would be able to find him later.

Preferably alive.