Welcome to beautiful hell. Warm and inviting this home just calls you in like the colors of a deadly flower. You lean in to smell it or to touch it and the poison sticks to you and won’t come off. You know what happens next? You die. Just like that, you die.

They like where they live. They really do. But only because where they live—not at home but in general—They are trusted and truly worth something. Amongst friends, at least. But home, in the prison of venomous warmth and love, that one aspect is lacking. Trust.

They wish they were trusted at home…everything is checked…everything. Them, their phones, their computers, their skin! It’s insane! But, I suppose, the reasonings are just. After all, they are just children, right? When does it matter when it comes to their opinions? Never. Usually. Very, very scarcely are they actually believable enough (they shouldn’t have to try!) to say something constructive.

Strict. Some would say it is unjust, others merely say it is right as can be! Me…I think it is pathetic. What’s the point of living together if trust is unknown?

Nothing.