A/N: This is me releasing my anger and frustration at my grandparents via Beyond Birthday's mind. Whether you like it or not, let me know, but this is basically a form of therapy.

Warning? Probably swearing, not that that should be anything particuarly new..

I don't own Another Note.

Earthquake.

Crushing, crashing, destroying, burning this caged superficial suburbia in a whirlwind of magnetic mayhem.

(If I had the capacity to care...)

I need to break them, I need the shake and shake and shake and shake it all until everything, every vice and sin and evidence of morality and human nature and crimson (lick) is upturned and naked for every survivor to see.

Then again, I don't expect any survivors.

I expect them to die. Its always red, a vicious tone of empowering cruelty that leaks through eyelids and spills down my cheeks while I laugh at the carnage. It's almost as if I am a beast, a dog drugged and dreary, needles poking out of my fur, tainting the eyeballs. It's always red.

But I am no beast.

I think about that while I'm crying. While I'm smiling, while I'm laughing and thinking and gazing and eating, and then I remember that I expect them to die.

I giggle absently, choking on each gig with the ticks, and when I'm up to gle the party's almost over and I have to sink my teeth into something fresh.

I toy with an ebony strand, enjoying the torturously delicious thoughts of vampirism and my fortunately similar circumstantial appearance.

I never liked my mother very much. She was pleasant (to my face), affectionate to the pillow (that would replace), and horrified to the telephone receiver, (whose ring would start the race). (Chuckle!) My birth certificate conceals my stealth as I read each e-mail, eyes flickering to the bottom right corner, remembering mommy's coming home soon.

The train reaches its end and its passengers file out like ants, black and tiny from my conceited cloud, (which she wishes I was, always)

The headache-heavy glare reaches my eyes, the sun fucking with the swirls and sweetness that moves around my pupil, lighting them up, golden rays glowing, and the swirling reminds me of the wooden spoon in the sink, needs to be washed, that's right, it needs to stir the soup in the saucepan.

The table is colder than her eyes, I expect a spider to approach her frosty lips and start the croquet, because she won't talk to me. It's sad, because webs are such intricate, elegant things, abundant in glitter and diamonds that far outdo the jewellery in her box.

I smile as the spoon reaches my tongue, cold green soup. I smile because I remember that that will happen anyway, when she's in her coffin.

An elaborate chocolate box.

I can't reach it, it's too high. It makes me angry. Nothing is too high. Nothing, do you hear me?! Thats what you deserve!

I'm angry now, pale knuckles tangled, knotting the hair, I'm so angry I can't breathe, sick and green soup frothing up my throat like a fizzing bottle—its going to overflow...

The bathroom reminds of a jail, a prison, a place where I don't belong as I lean over the toilet-seat, the stench of liquid-detergent infiltrating my lungs and hooking onto my stomach like a fish, oily and smelly and gasping and urghhhh... Tugging it up.

The tiles are like mirrors as I watch myself delve into it, I feel wet, sloshing down my back, the beautiful spider's web, tree's branches that scratch the window-sill, or maybe the veins that coat my eyes, I'm not sure.

The white sink is dirty as I wash my hands, and I hear the clatter of plates and cutlery and other implements that can be, on the occasion, useful for my building endeavours.

The springs on the mattress whine, but not louder than her. If she's not grilling her eyes, squashing them like the ants I do, sobbing into rough tissues (and she's pathetically aware of their texture) she's whining through sweat, the f- f- f-fucking exploding through the wall and awaking the child's slumber.

That's just dynamite.

How did this happen, how did it get to this?

I could just imagine:

[The make-up she attempted this morning, under instructions from her mother in the bath, will be creeping down her face already: vanity misplaced.

Here she comes, a poem in pleated fuchsia. She looks edible, like a fertility symbol made of praline.

I wave at her with my grin, as if someone is pulling levers. Then we all turn the prayer-book pages in polite confusion.

The great wooden doors at the back of the hall are opening.

Nervous but happy in unflattering ivory velvet, the bride-to-be, led by her father, is about to begin the slow walk towards her future.]

Then I see the night-shifts and failure.

The even-later-phone-calls.

I can also imagine her adolescence: crayoned love letters to grandma, old relationships blu-tacked to the walls, hazy blue smoke through a river of condom-packets.

It's my birthday when she dies, the icing melts as she sinks into dirt, my fork delves into cream, raspberry oozing like the rest of her.

Earthquakes don't stop when someone loses their baby. Earthquakes don't stop when the ceiling squashes the girl, steeped in fur and lipstick and all of her mother's clothes.

Just like my eyes, that expect them to die.

And just like that, the homicidal urges are gone; like magic!

I know that, generally speaking, the word 'grandparents' usually goes hand in hand with words like, 'warmth,' 'loving,' and 'comfort.'

If there is anyone else out there who feels... deep resentment for their grandmother/grandparents, all I can say is that you are certainly not alone.

R&R, please.