31 Days of August

Day 15: The Emptiness

Day 15: Write a scene taking place in an (almost) empty room.

I hated this. I always did. This part was always so hard, but I always forced myself to do it--to memorize every detail and every crack in the wall to chipped splotch of paint. It was pretty depressing to just stand here, wallowing in the emptiness of it all. I had only been here a mere three months, and we were already leaving. My parents got bored, and since they happened to thrive on spontaneity, we were moving...again.

As rooms went, this one had always treated me pretty well. It had been the location of a few make out sessions, and just a place to breathe. It wasn't the biggest one I had encountered, but it wasn't that small, either. Now, though, it was practically empty, except for the remnants of posters that were taped up on the wall, only the corners and adhesive remaining. My bed was also there, but that was really it. The room was almost empty, though the memories would remain.

Whenever I came to this point, my heart always ached. I would be leaving behind people and places and things for good, and would never be coming back. It was always the same routine. One day one of my parents would come home, and then announce that they were bored. Days later we would move across the country, or even world. We had spent a lot of time in Europe when I was younger, and lived in Canada for about a month, but it was always harder due to visas and all that crap. I preferred to stay in the US, even if in a different state.

So far, in all my seventeen years of existence, I had lived in thirty-seven different states--including Hawaii and Alaska. Thinking back on it now, my time in the tropics of Hawaii were actually some of the best months I had ever endured. Alaska I wasn't really a big fan of, due to the extreme levels of coldness, and my parents knew that, so we only stayed for a month and a half or so. That was when I was about ten. Now, though, it was seven years later and I was in the gloriously boring state of Connecticut, moving once again.

When I was about seven we had lived in Connecticutt for around five or so months. My parents had liked the state, but they didn't love it. I wasn't really sure why they had decided to move back, but it was on the complete other side of the state, not even remotely near where we had lived almost tens ago. It had been a long three months. I had to tranfer schools (again), and make new friends that I knew I would have to leave (again), and completely uproot my life (again). For some reason, though, I didn't mind. This was how I lived. We were practically nomadic, and I was okay with that.

"Uh, hey," someone uneasily said from the doorway. I knew exactly who it was, and let out a sigh, pausing my mental closure as I turned around. This always happened.

"What's up, Zev?" I tried to casually ask, sending him a small smile.

"You're leaving," he stated.

I laughed. "Yeah, I tend to do that."

"I don't want you to go," he gulped. That was always a nice one-liner to hear. Most guys went with the cliche, "I'll miss you so much."

"Well, it's not either of our decisions, is it?" I said with a shrug.

"I love you," he suddenly blurted out. And there it was. The phrase that just about half of them said whenever they knew for sure I was going. It was easy to tell someone who was moving to the other side of the country that you loved them, for the chances were pretty low that you would ever see them again. What was hard, though, was telling someone the same thing who lead a completely stationary life and you would see day after day.

"No, you don't," I sighed, having the same conversation that I had had with so many other boys in the past. It always went this way. "You're in love with the thought of me, Zev: the new girl who has an adventurous lifestyle and is a bit on the crazier side. You don't love me."