Big Mac Diner

I absolutely adored diners, especially those 'old-fashioned' ones. I think the main reason of this is because every summer when we were younger, my grandparents would take me and my cousin and good friend, Felilx, to a diner that was of short walking distance of their home.

My love for diners has long since vanished.

In a tight and clenched fetal position, I continue to shake vigorously. An awful hack made its way out my throat and along it with it, some spotty blood.

&quot;W-Whyâ€¦?&quot; My wavering voice whispers out to the form in front of me.

The blood, my blood to be exact, dripped disgustingly from the sharpened grill-scraper in their hands.

&quot;Why?&quot; His strong vocal chords boomed, &quot;You make me go through all that, and yet, you ask me WHY I do this?!&quot;

I quiver as a scarred child would do. I was never really one to take being yelled at very well. The building we were in was basically in ashes. The walls were burned and parts of the roof were missing, letting the sun shine through the cracks sickeningly- as if to mock my presence in the situation.

Alas, yet, I repeat my previous question, still refusing to lock eyes with the man, &quot;W-Why?&quot;

&quot;God fucking damn it, you!&quot; He roared once more, &quot;It was a fucking easy question, but you still took five hours to think it over!&quot;

I finally decided to look him in his blackish-brown eyes.

&quot;DO YOU WANT FRIES WITH THAT?&quot;