Username: 
Password:    
Remember Me

Search by :  Username E-mail Region Interest AOL IM ICQ Number Yahoo! ID MSN Username Jabber

Oliver. King. (cyprian) wrote in bellumlogs,

There's no way he'll get away with this, you think. Although if anyone could do the impossible, you know it's him.

It's a warm spring day, and you're standing on the lawn of the house in Rochester. The yard is a massive sprawl of manicured green, and feels like blades of satin under your bare feet. You're looking at the house, your house. Some mansionesque monstrosity of modern architecture. Complete with pillars, a wrap around porch.. and a brand new paint job.

There are men strapped to pulleys and flats, rising and falling along the height of the house's floors. Covering what had once been a respectable whitewash with neon orange. It's tacky enough to churn your stomach, and that's what makes you realize that it's the exact color as if some greedy fuck had eaten a whole bag of candy corn and vomited the after effects.

The color preference was, naturally, your brother's.

He's walking out of the house now. Coming up alongside you to admire the recreation of your childhood home. He's munches on a piece of cheese toast, philosophically. "Think Mom will like it?"

"She'll hate it," you tell him.

"Same thing," he muses.