last resort

e l e v e n

I SLUMP FACE DOWN ON MY BED in a mountain of pillows.

I am exhausted. I don't even know why. Stress? Jet lag? Maybe both. Maybe because my heart palpitated a million different times throughout the day and because my brain went straight through overdraft the moment something seemed to pitch to the wrong direction.

I swear anxiety will send me to the hospital some day, and that will either be a mental ward or in the ICU. It's not as if my overthought scenarios will actually merge to life one day. If it will, I am screwed, because my thoughts will either be Godzilla or a really angry Hulk.

My stomach grumbles, the hunger tingle raging up my esophagus, leaving my mouth dry. I didn't have time to eat my lunch, since Ash attacked me. To an extend, she proved herself.

She is my friend to be my mum's friend. If it weren't for Braxton being her body guard, I would've told her what I felt about this whole situation. This is if I did not swallow my tongue like all the other times I attempted to speak my mind. My mind consists out of passive-aggressive thinking and an angry, drunk pirate vocabulary. I don't have the guts to speak my mind, little lone to swear too much at someone.

I drag myself up and off my bed, disrupting the tidiness of my purple and charcoal gray sheets. My bed is stacked with a mountain of throw pillows and quilts of all textures and sizes, mostly in white, black, purple and different shades of gray dispersed everywhere, including the floor. My ceiling skirting are lined with a row of fairy lights, dangling over posters and prints of my favorite bands, brands and artists and casting spotlights over the pale faces and black clothes.

I hear a deep, heartbeat steady rhythm diffused by distance. I walk to my bedroom door, slowly, keeping my ears in the direction of the rhythm. The steady beat fastens, before clangs of thin pieces of metal is being added to it. I pause, scrunching my brows.

We must have a neighborhood band or drum player. It's the most excitement I ever had in any neighborhood I've ever lived in. I lived in the grandma part of Portsmouth, where they complained if a puppy whined or it a kitten growled. I run down the stairs into the kitchen, to hear the beat harder, but different. It had more beats in, faster as well.

I'd like to know where the birth of the noise is. It could be a scoop for the magazine, albeit my lack of journalism. I'm most definitely not a journalist material, because I'm programmed my whole childhood to dodge journalism and the whole petooty following it. I scramble onto the kitchen counter after disemboweling myself on the sharp edges on the marble slab as cold as salted ice.

The noise is most definitely not born from the side of the neighborhood, but maybe Levi's side. The coldness of the stone is starting to sting my bare knees. I see nothing but the front lawn and the ghost house across the street on the other side of the counter, though. Then again, I don't think the Vincent house actually holds life, they maybe just own the house for show. Then again, Casey did waltz into the lounge.

"Wha' are ye' doin' on the counte'?"

I jump around, my heart leaping into my throat like vomit. My dad stands in the arch opening between the kitchen and the formal living room, tapping his foot at me. I inhale quickly, attempting to calm down my heart. I blink at him, but he stares amused at me with a cocked up eyebrow.

"Dad," I exhale in relief, sliding my weight off the counter. I'm pretty sure these masses of horror movies I watch aren't good to my mental health anymore, since my father is turning into my Michael Meyers nightmare. My weight bangs down on my ankles, popping both of them before I recover my stance.

"I know ye' shor'," he shrugs, but I growl at his tease, "bu' tha' doesn' mean you can si' on the counte's," he mocks.

"I can' help I can' see," I shrug. "I'm goin' next door."