Stage Two: Anger
Now I'm beyond pissed.
Music is blasting in this room that's not mine, making the bed that's also not mine vibrate underneath me. The stereo (not mine) is good. Really good. I like it.
Stupid goddamnsonofabitch.
It's his fault, the ass-fucking-hole. He couldn't let sleeping dogs lie. Why'd he do it? For fucking money? Reputation? What?
The policeman, Commisioner Gorden, was talking to Wayne downstairs, and I'd gotten done trying to listen. All I'd gotten was '...mob boss..." and "...Tony Zucco...".
Now I'm pissed.
There dead. Deaddeaddeaddeaddead. Now I'm stuck here, in this stupid house with this billionaire trying to earn his browny points and a butler who did nothing but clean and cook and clean and take and shit then clean some more.
The music gets so much louder, even though I'm not even touching it, nor am I listening any more thouroughly. It's just louder, and I suddenly realize how bad it actually is. Senseless, pointless guitar smashing and nonsensical, cracking screams. Then again, it was pretty accurate, considering my mood.
Son of a bitch.
I realized I had a baseball clenched between my fist, found it in the backyard. Alfred, the butler, said it probably rolled in from another yard. I found that strange, seeing as there weren't any houses for miles, let alone rolling distance. I always hated baseball. Everytime I saw some kids playing it in whatever city we were in, I'd wonder why the fuck they'd want to throw balls at each other with only a crap leather glove to break a hit. It seemed mindless and barbaric to me. I don't know, though. I feel like throwing something right now.
I slam the ball into the wall in front of me, a good seven feet away, and it makes a thump and a crack, and little splinters of wood poke out from the smooth surface of the foundation. I feel satisfied.
Son of a bitch.
I miss my mom. And I'm pissed.
A/N Again, not being completely serious with this. More like amusement. No point at all.