She sits on her bed, legs folded with a sketchbook resting on them. Her comforter is thrown on the floor along with her clothes and schoolbooks. Her room is filled with the smell of dirty clothes, rotten food and stale air. The glare of the ceiling lights reflects off her mirror and on to the wall to create a strange pattern of light. Her cat notices this and attempts to attack the wall. She smirks at spike and throws her a cat toy. She rests against the wall and a pile of pillows comfortably, although the expression on her face would make you think different. Her face is tense, eyebrows scrunched and lips pressed firmly together. Her eyes are focused on pages of her sketchbook. The door is shut tight and locked from the inside. They will have to knock.
Her room is overflowing with the sounds of punk/rock, screamo, music turned up to warp nine to drown out the sounds of her house.
She can’t hear them this way.
The windows in her room are small and high on the wall. She feels a chill on her bare arms from the draft sneaking in through the old single-pain windows. The chipping paint around them clashes with the freshly painted walls; a deep purple and white crown molding trim. Her walls are covered here and there with pictures of friends smiling, posing awkwardly and terrorizing the town. There are magazine clippings and short sayings pasted randomly on the walls, ceiling and the back of her door.
“The future belong to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams”
“Live and let live”
She holds on to the sketchbook with one hand. In her other hand she ferociously draws on the thick pages of her book with a black marker. Her long deep brown hair falls into her eyes and on to her page. She stops suddenly, lets out a loud and deep breath of air and drops her marker. She reaches for an old tattered elastic and throws her hair up into a messy pony. Picking up her marker she goes to start again but hesitates. She studies the page and then slowly adds to it in a more relaxed manner. Frustrated, she turns the page and begins again, this time she pauses, listens to the beat of her music, taps her foot and starts in the middle of the page. Realizing she is pushing hard with her marker she places a newspaper between the pages to save the next page from running ink.
A bang on the door startles her. She stops and stares at it not moving. She hears a low muffled sound and replies with a
Why couldn’t she be an only child?
The banging continues. The door shakes and rattles with every hit from the outside. Frozen, she stops breathing, hoping the noise will stop. But it continues. The whole door shakes. It’s amazing that it has held up for so long, so many beatings. She reaches for her stereo volume and begins to turn it down. She can hear words now:
“Turn that crap down and listen to me right now”
“I will find my way in there one way or another”
She shudders at this familiar voice, fully knowing where it can lead.
“Ok, Sorry I was in the middle of doing my home work, just a second”
The banging stops and there’s nothing but silence. The creaking from the wooden frame of the house seems to be louder than usual. Spike is under the bed peeking out at the now still door. Still sitting on her bed she clumsily pulls up the mattress and slips her sketchbook in. There it is safe, hidden, it doesn’t exist.
She peels herself from the bed and begins to walk towards the door. Her heart is thumping, her footsteps shaking.
She thinks to her self ‘breath.’
She reaches for the handle stops, and picks up a black hoody and pulls it over her head leaving the hood on. Her hand trembles as she reaches for the doorknob again. Unlocks it,
and is bulldozed by the door swinging open into her face.