Their Beautiful Madness
The place is small, cramped, and claustrophobic. The air is thick with cigarette smoke. Empty liquor bottles litter the counters, some on the floor. The walls, fuck, the paint is peeling in strips, stained with things I don't want to think about. Every surface looks sticky.
This is what my doll comes home to? This dump?
This mess, it isn't her. It isn't Beatrice. This disaster reflects more on her mother than anything else. It makes me want to burn the whole fucking place to the ground just so she never has to look at it again.
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