❝Sometimes you've got to bleed to know
that you're alive and have a soul,
but it takes someone to come around
to show you how,❞
She's the tear in his heart, he's on fire.
She's the tear in his heart, she makes him higher.
He's the butcher with the...
I SHOVEL AROUND A SUITCASEI haven't unpacked yet. It's the only belongings I could bring from Portsmouth, but that didn't bring back home.
I want to slap together a portfolio for Mr Dorame, but my laptop seemed to have found feet to run away and hide. I can't find it. If my laptop decided to grow limbs, I can write my own eulogy pen-and-paper style.
Everything's on that old generation of technology. My social life, my magazine future. If I don't find it, I can be reborn as a mewling baby, because then I'll have to start from scratch all over again.
I have no idea where my busy-body mother is to help me in this horrid predicament. She's drowned in her own world, way too busy to ask her children if they are happy with the move to Florida. Not that she will ask, in any case.
She is, though, given this is her birth state. But she came back from LA just yesterday, but she basically packed my suitcase for me, which is inevitable to her OCD-like chaotic control over this household. We're just as scatterbrained with her as without her.
I sigh, slumping back onto the still new, white Seattle wood frame bed. It's a bigger bed than my previous one, but the room is big enough to hold it and about a mini living room for a whole class to occupy altogether. Instead, I filled the rest of the open space with canvasses and art equipment for both eyes and ears. Not that I play any instruments, I used to. I scan through my belongings littered over the rosewood floor, glowering at me.
Where would my laptop be?
It can't just disappear. It is not Victoria Sykes. Maybe mum would know? She is after all the worker of magic in this house, neither my brother or my father are really useful when it comes to looking.
I can't tell how many hamsters Telle lost as a kid, ended up that he set them free after about a week, because his friend bullshitted him. He felt downright-cheating kind of guilt when he got a hamster, yet insisted that my father got him a hamster since he's allergic to dogs every single time he had the pet-blues.
I sprint up and out of my room into the wide, white corridor. The house is still barren. There's no sign that we're living in here other than tee boxed up furniture. I check my parent's room at the back of the hall to find it occupied with nothing other than air and furniture.
No life.
I skip downstairs into the open plan living area. I feel like Alice in Wonderland, altough I'll probably get lost in here somewhere, sometime. I already got myself lost somewhere between the kitchen and the living room, which is a complete waste of space.
Downstairs, the formal living room and kitchen takes up most of the front space, wasting the space. It feels as if I am in a Daft Punk music video, every thing is upper class, fancy and white. The kitchen cabinets are topped with white marble and the cabinets self are coated in a glossy white as well. Futuristic mechanisms and appliances are dispersed all over the pale counter tops, holding a grudge against color.
Other than the black contrasting refrigerator, this house lacks anything of the color wheel.
My dad sits at the nook seperating the kitchen from the formal living room. He pages through newspaper, a deep frown worn in his face. I skip into the kitchen, pulling a can of ice tea out of the fridge. I open it and take a sip, before parking in top of the counter in front of my dad.
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