“I look like her.” I heard Rika say. “Don’t I? That’s why you’ve always hated me.” I hesitated. Like her. Like Winter. Blonde hair, blue eyes, same age, same wild purity… Like the innocence of a tornado or a raging hurricane. “I hate all of you,” I mumbled. I don’t even blink saying the words. I hate all of you. Hate all of who? Their little group I was once a part of? Women? People, in general? Who knew, and she didn’t ask. But part of me wanted her to understand. Jesus Christ.
