My grandmother’s house was filled with items and knick-knacks. Pictures of all sorts lined the walls, as did furniture and lamps. She even had a collectible circus train built into the wall that ran on a small track just below the ceiling. Even though the house was filled with these objects, it always felt so empty. Objects symbolizing structure and life, yet no life was to be found.
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“Hi, my name is Cassandra, my grandmother is crazy, I wear nothing but black clothing these days… oh yeah, did I forget to mention the fact that I am carrying on the family business? What? Oh no… my dad never owned a bakery or flower shop… No, my father is in the killing business. Yep, that’s right, he kills people for a living. What? Yeah, I think I may be carrying on his legacy.”
I am so confused right now. I am also angry as all hell at my grandmother. That crazy God-loving witch is going to pay for this some day.
