History books in my sister's attic. Dusty. Thick.
I wanted to read them. I needed to. Perhaps I was trying to research something...
But she was freaking out about it. Didn't want me to read these history books. These dumb, dusty history books. And she was making such a big deal about it. It was absurd. Too absurd to be funny. In fact, it made me really angry.
I remember standing in the hallway, filled with an impalpable rage. Screaming. Trying in vain to articulate the absurdity of this situation she'd created for the both of us.
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