The Art of Starting Over

Bonus (CUT) #2 - The First Days

ALLY

Up in the little converted washroom, it's dark. It's been dark for a while. I don't know if it was already dark when I sat down on the floor. It certainly wasn't dark when I opened the doors of the new DIY wardrobe. So, the sun must have set somewhere between then and the moment I felt my life being taken away from me.

My bags are still on the neatly made DIY bed. Closed. My stuff still inside. My books. My clothes. My laptop. My phone. No one called or messaged to see if I got here okay. No one called or messaged to tell me they made it back home safe either. Nothing changed. It only got dark and cold.

I hear the door creek open behind me but I don't turn around. I hear Emily's soft sigh as she sees me on the floor. I wait for her to say something, give her time to take in the fact that everything is exactly the same as she left it God knows how many hours ago. For all I know, or care, I may have been sitting on the stone floor staring at the back of the empty wardrobe for days, weeks.

I close my eyes against the stinging and a single tear escapes. I let it fall so that she doesn't see me wiping it. Just when I am about to ask her what the fuck she wants she says in that strange accent of hers, "I made soup. If you want something else that's okay too, I can whip something up. Just let me know if you're hungry."

Hungry?

Is she serious? No, I'm not hungry! My stomach writhes in protest of the idea of food.

I bite my tongue and stare fixedly at the back of the wardrobe until the door creeks to a close again.

#

Two days later. My bags are open but the wardrobe is still empty. My dad called this morning. He asked Emily if I was doing okay. She told him to talk to me and ask me himself but I shook my head at her. I didn't want to speak to him. He had no right to expect me to.

Emily just gave me a sad look and walked back out with the phone telling him that I'm still asleep. Maybe if he called later. But he didn't call. Nobody did. Not my friends. Not Jake.

I slide back into the DIY bed and pull the purple covers over my head. I hate purple.

#

According to the date on my phone, I have been in this room for three weeks now. I finally unpacked yesterday. Not that getting my clothes from the wardrobe instead of straight from my bag makes me feel any better. But I was angry. I was angry and upset and I needed something to do. I had been stalking Jake's Facebook hoping to get some idea of where he is and what he's doing and why he hasn't returned any of my calls or messages when he suddenly came online.

I hit him with another casual 'hey!' No smiley faces this time. I'm all smiley-faced out. The message was marked as seen the instant I sent it. But there was no reply. Tears were stinging the back of my eyes again. Why wasn't he talking to me?

And then I got my answer. His profile picture changed. He had the cover of 30 Seconds to Mars' latest album and replaced it with a picture of him in his real leather jacket, the one that makes him look at least two years older, the one I like so much. Sally Brooks was hanging on his arm with an in-your-face smile and a skirt so short it would make a prostitute blush.

#

I'm hot. I wipe the sweat on my face against the purple sheets before I fling them off me. The room is drenched in sunlight. It must be way past nine o'clock.