last resort

s i x

I HAVE NO PARTICULAR DESIRE to go back to Portsmouth, but I have no desire to live in America either.

I didn't have a particular life moral in England, and I never really tried to reach my full potential unless I was behind or in front of the camera. I avoided fame from the front door to the halls I had to walk in every day, but yet, some souls are so desperate for fame they'd kill themselves to reach it.

I never allowed people to walk over my like a cracked sidewalk soaked in acidy rain water. Telle did it, and I learned hard. His weakness was accentuated and then broken all at once.

There's a few things I do miss of my old hometown, such as the weather and the people. The people here are as different as day and night. I can't label which is which, but all I can tell is that I don't think I will particularly get used to Americans. Especially after getting ambushed a multiple amount—too much for my liking—in public. My mother is a natural born fame craver.

Other things I miss of my hometown, is the small, compact, careless way of living. Here everything is prim and proper, it's glam or damn.

If you're not up in the Florida class, you do not fit in. Even with clothes. I have to pick out what I wear as carefully as picking a new pair of expensive shoes. That phrase society keeps riding back on, the I-wish-things-were-like-in-the-old-days, youth, describes my lack of emotion. If I actually gave a damn, I would've tried to wear lace shorts and strappy crop tops.

I find myself staring blankly at a picture dimming on my laptop screen. Dammit. I forgot to feed the machine electricity again. I run my hand through my hair, frustrated, biting on the inside of my cheeks until I tasted iron. What do I kid? I miss Portsmouth the way I miss my deceased grandma. I never intended in growing on the people there like mold. I intended to make them miss me when I go, not the other way around.

I jump off my bed, quickly slamming the plug into the electrical outlet before jumping back onto my bed. I heave a heavy sigh, rolling my sleeves up to my elbows. The picture dims back onto the screen.

A girl stands on her hands in the right most corners of the picture, dressed up casually. Her hair is flipped over, tickling the cement beneath her hands. Lora Yates. She was—is—my best friend. I don't know if I could classify us as best friends after this move. She wasn't particularly excited for my departure. I wasn't particularly excited for my departure either.

Lora isn't like other quirky girls. She's a complete new level of quirkiness, her happiness usually radiated off her exterior like an electric blanket. She gets distraught by the smallest out-of-order fault, but she's quick to fix, quick to help. That's how we became friends, because apparently I have the tendency to break and dislocate my life like I dislocate my arm.

Often.

I grew onto her too quick, and now it feels as if a part of my heart is ripped out of my chest and planted in the earth of Portsmouth. I left myself there. I barely knew who I became, this move just tossed everything up and made my life a coping hell. It's not as if I'm suffering. I'm just walking around on my hands. I could tumble over at any given moment, but I still have the potential to recover myself.

I'm not going to use pictures that'll cause me heartache. It's too much of a burden. It's too early.

I pass the pictures of London and Sheffield quickly, trying to clip the emotional attachment I have to them. Maybe that's a problem. Maybe we don't realize it, but growing attached to objects and photos, is the main reason we suffer so violently of nostalgia. It's the sole reason for homesick, which I am lodged in so deeply with. Homesick practically courses through my veins.