Retracing the steps and fumbling with the knot holding my scarlet worn ribbon secured to a quivering fist.

Fighting never solved anything!

I growled, the rumbling in my voice inconsistent with the stillness surrounding the area.

But they weren’t there. They never cared about what would happen. And it was their doing! The catalyst—THEY are responsible!

I opened my fist to reveal the remains of the newspaper article, an incremented scrap of the one hundred and fifty-five words that made my life lose the little meaning it had left. One word, barely recognizable through the wet, singed debris remained, blaring dignified authority with menacing black, 14 inch font bold letters.

“Solicited”

What a vague word. Stabs of pain shot through my stomach.

How could one word describe everything?

I played with the ribbon unconsciously, fraying the ends. Strands of the blood red fabric poked out, zigging and zagging into smaller fragments.

Why didn’t they at least try?

Its crazy insane how the mind works. Like a clock, the gears shift and move around each other in a constant, never-ending rhythm, until the right parts seem to gather at the right moment. A predestined compromise, unbeknownst to time and space surrounding them. Clicking into place, they refuse to waver, and the person whom these abused, misshapen parts belong to wonders why they did not click sooner.

I got angry. I didn’t mean to. I knew I shouldn’t have left.

But I did.

I glared and glared and stared, unblinkingly at the ribbon. And I waited for it to show me what I wanted.