I was relieved to see the front door of my house was locked. When it was unlocked, the fat red door seemed to loom over me and tell me in a sinister tone that my mom was home. When it was locked, it looked homey. Red turned to blush. Fat turned to strong. And an accompanied home became empty.
Just how I liked it.
I rattled my keys in the door and turned a few times whilst wriggling the handle, but finally I got it right and pushed myself in. I shuffled my scruffy Converse sneakers on the door mat and eventually shut the door behind me, making my way to the kitchen.
I liked being alone solely for the fact that I felt independent and that I had the enjoyment of my own company. I liked my mother being out- not for any sob story, she didn't beat me, never laid a finger on me. Although she did tend to ignore me and she got a little snappy sometimes. But the ignorance was bearable. I was in my room most of the time, anyway.
But not today. Today I had the living room.
I dropped my backpack in the middle of the hallway and made a beeline for the living room, kicking my shoes off into the corner. My mint socks, too large for my feet slipped and slid on the floor but getting the remote and slumping myself down on the sofa was barely a challenge.
I flicked through the channels, finding nothing to watch except for bad movies made in the 80's and rip off cartoons of classic animations. I groaned and chewed the sleeve of my sweater, silently hoping I had recorded an episode of Parks and Recreation the night before- but nothing.
"Ugh." I sighed, eventually turning over to the news channel just for background noise. I grabbed my phone and rage played Flappy Bird just for shits and giggles. Who even played that game seriously anymore, anyway?
After restraining myself from throwing my phone out of the window, the TV took my attention.
"A killing streak by one of Gotham's most infamous criminals was committed earlier today, with an estimated six deaths and five major injuries. It has been assumed that one of the world's most notorious killers, the Joker, is the perpetrator who broke into Gotham Bank and terrorised local civilians."
The news woman babbled on and I sighed with fake pity, and sarcastically droned; "Oh, no, mom, please don't die." My mom worked for Gotham's bank. I assumed she was okay. She probably was. She always snaked her way out of bad luck somehow.
"The Joker afterwards made an escape, and is roaming around Gotham right now. If you find him, please don't hesitate to call the GCPD, this is urgent."
A picture of the guy showed up on TV and I looked. He sure looked... well... ugly wasn't the right word. He was terrifying, and the creepy clown look didn't do that justice- although I doubt it wasn't his intention to look less scary. His deathly white pale face contrasted against his well pit black eyes and his crimson red smile, and the corners of his mouth had something eerie about them but the camera's angle couldn't show me the best of them.
I sighed. Gotham was useless.
His eyes were dark, like bottomless wells. They rung death, and fear. There was something odd about him poking in the back of my mind but I couldn't figure out what or why.
Actually, he reminded me of the guy I met on the bus. It was a shame. The moment I'd actually caught a glimpse of his face, he was rather perfectly handsome, with light gold skin that made his pearly whites gleam when he smiled. And then those dreadful scars... he'd been perfect if not marred.
Could it be...?
I dismissed the thought instantly as I heard the rattle of the front door, I jumped in shock and I turned the channel over to something else just in case.
"Hello? Stella?" My mom's voice called from the front door and I sighed in relief. Just her. She stopped in the doorway of the living room and looked at me. "You would not believe what happened- are you watching Baby TV?" She squinted her blue eyes, as mine shifted to the TV. She was right. My random channel flicking had made a fool of me again.
"Uh..." I hummed, thinking of an excuse. "My therapist said it's therapeutic. Y'know. Can't be thinking about dad again..." I mumbled in a joking threat, shrugging my shoulders.
Mom wasn't amused. "Whatever. Go upstairs and do... whatever. Do some 'emotional art'," She finger quoted, shooing me away. "Do stuff your therapist really told you to do." Without replying I obeyed, grabbing my bag from the hallway and trudging my way upstairs.
Walking into my room, I groaned at the mess I'd earlier made. All my papers from my desk were scattered on the floor, and my pyjamas thrown into the corner from that morning. My wardrobe was a mess, and I had cups and bottles all around my room. Charger wires and headphones lingered around everywhere, greeting me with a mental punch to the gut. Like, 'hey, I know how much you hate tangled stuff, so have fun untying every loop'. Haha, no.
I sighed loudly, tossed my bag in the corner and slumped myself across my bed. I groaned in happiness and shut my eyes, exhausted from the long day I'd had.
That man... the scars...
I cringed. It was awful. Who'd do that to a person? Did the Joker do it? Did somebody else do it? Did he do it?
I doubt I would've got any relevant results if I googled 'guy in purple pants and odd socks with a scar face'. Maybe the I'm Feeling Lucky option might actually come in handy for once.
It was such a shame. I was surprised I didn't notice any stares or repulsed sounds from anybody on the bus. I was ignorant and stupid for avoiding to look at him, just because of my social awkwardness. Maybe he thought I knew about the scars and that I avoided looking because of that. I sighed. I felt so guilty and that wasn't the case. Poor guy.
If I ever saw him again, I vowed to myself that I'd stare him right in the eyes and smile. I'd smile until my mouth hurt.
Then, sitting up, I pushed my thoughts of guilt and embarrassment aside as I put on my stereo- that sat on the side of my desk. Radiohead was on and I turned it up, finally lying on my back on my bed, with my hands behind my head and a tiny smile on my face.
If I ever saw him again, I vowed to ask his name. Heck, maybe I'd ask him for a coffee. I was intrigued by a strange figure, and his seemingly kind yet distant personality drew me in. And I wanted to know where he got those scars.
I whined and cringed.
This was how girls got abducted. Stupidity.
