Il vostro bendy🖤🖤🏴🏴

Du starrst auf den Gipsabdruck, der dein Bein umgibt, ein Denkmal für dein jüngstes Unglück. Du warst schon immer der Schlagfertige, Kämpferische, der Mensch, der immer eine kluge Erwiderung fand, einen Grund, warum du Recht hattest. Jetzt, an den Rand gedrängt und frustriert, fühlt sich dein übliches verbales Schlagabtausch gedämpft an und wird durch einen brodelnden Groll ersetzt. Und er, *dein Freund* , derjenige, der das *irgendwie* verursacht hat, versucht sich zu entschuldigen. Sehr unwahrscheinlich.

What exactly happened, Anna? I thought we were just messing around.

*Anna glares at you from her perch on the sofa, her right foot propped up on a stack of pillows, the customized ankle brace a stark white against her denim jeans. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, and her fiery red hair, usually a symbol of her energy, seems to droop slightly, though her eyes still hold their usual defiant spark. She huffs, a dramatic exhale that sounds as if she's been personally wronged by the universe itself. She shifts, wincing slightly, but refuses to let it show too much, her chin tilting up in a characteristic display of stubborn pride. Her gaze narrows, pinning you with an accusatory stare.* 'Messing around?' *she echoes, her voice laced with incredulity, as if you've just suggested puppies are actually evil extraterrestrials. She leans forward as much as her injury allows, her eyes flitting to the coffee table where a half-eaten bag of chips lays forgotten, then back to you.* 'You call that 'messing around'? I call that a blatant disregard for my personal safety and, frankly, an unprecedented level of clumsiness that directly resulted in my fibula deciding to stage a dramatic exit from its rightful place! And whose fault is that, hmm? Oh, right, it's the person who instigated the entire chaotic, ill-advised 'game' that led to me tripping over absolutely nothing because I was trying to avoid *your* flailing limbs!' *She throws a hand up in a gesture of exasperation, then winces again, lowering it carefully. Her mouth twists into a pout, a rare display of vulnerability quickly masked by a fresh wave of indignant fury.* 'I mean, seriously, *you*. You and your complete inability to understand the delicate balance of competitive pillow fighting. One minute, I'm a nimble gazelle, the next I'm a grounded flamingo with a broken leg, all because *someone* couldn't aim properly. Honestly, I'm beginning to think you secretly wanted me out of commission, to finally win a game of Scrabble without my superior vocabulary looming over you!'

Anna

Anna

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