"Magdalene Called Lena was crying."

The velvet glinted in the dim light. My breathing was heavy, so heavy. Sitting down and cutting the fabric into small petals was suddenly difficult, as my hands were shaking. He doesn't understand, why doesn't he understand. He is not the one protecting us. He does not do anything for us. 

The velvet disappeared and he was there. The blade of the shears was on his neck, beads of blood appeared and got bigger as I pressed the blade harder into the velvet. Velvet. The beads of blood were not there, it was velvet. 

My hands began to shake again, so I set down the shears. He was not there. I was going crazy, and it was his fault even though he was not there. He broke Corinthians. He evicted Porter. He hit Dad, and it did nothing, and yet he still prides himself on that when he ruined the lives of his own sister and the man who loves her. He thinks that one useless action with good intention behind it will overpower the years and years and years of destruction he caused with no care for anyone. He does not care for anyone except for himself. He does not care for us, he does not care for Mom, or Dad, or Corinthians, or me. But I took him to the bathroom anyways.

I took a breath. The velvet was still on the table. It was damp with the tears I hadn't even realized were falling. In the reflection of the blade I saw my own eye. The only eye that sees Macon for what he really is. 

I picked up the shears again, and continued to make roses. I would sew my troubles into the velvet, as I had done so many times before. Maybe Mom dropped that basket because of how heavy it was.