She sat Indian style

She sat Indian-style on her flower-printed bed spread. Letter in hand staring blankly at the picture framed on the wall. Suddenly her eyes began to burn. They turned red. Bloodshot. Then silver as a tear trickled down her right cheek leaving a trail of a gray, sulfur-like residue that seemed to burn her skin on its path.
The same thing happened as a tear dripped from her left eye. Her lips quivered and her mind took her to another place. The silver dripped on her hand transforming the peach to gray overcoming her whole body like a drop of food coloring overtakes a glass of water. The flowers on her bedspread disappeared, blending with the new color of her legs. The letters of the note she held in her hand came off one by one, the black melting into gray. The whole time her eyes steady on the photograph straight in front of her.
The walls, the floor, the dresser – all shiny silver. Everything but the picture was melting. As she sat there she suddenly had the point of view of herself in the photograph. Her father’s arm felt heavy on her shoulder like dead weight. She saw herself sitting on her bed staring and silently crying.
The ceiling fan became metal and was mixing up everything in the room like a blender. She looked over at her dad. His eyes were red and his body motionless. She poked him and he fell over.
Bang. Bang. The sound of his knuckles against the wood reminded her of gun shots. Her eyes flinched, but her ardnet stare endured. He opened the door and saw her sitting on her bed.
“Honey, are you okay?”
“Yeh dad. I’m fine.”
“I’m leaving now. I dont know what’s going to happen.”

Silence.

“You know this has nothing to do with you. It’s between her and me.”
“Yeh dad. I know.”
“I love you.”
“Yeh dad.”