Slowburn

Chapter 62

        The house we live in here in Nola isn't very large. You walk up the cement steps to a small dilapidated porch and once entering the house you're immediately in a room too small to be an actual room, but is more like an entryway into the living room. 

It's built somewhat narrow, actually this whole house is shaped funny, so rooms divot into awkward wall curvatures or angles that makes it hard to furnish. The couch is along the right wall, the television on the left. 

Mya's toys are sort of all over the place, even though my mother can never sit still and is always cleaning something. She takes pride in any home we live in no matter it's condition; she always makes it feel homey and well kept. 

        On the same left wall is the archway into the dining room/ kitchen area. Once you are facing that then it is towards the right side of the house that there is the short hall into the bathroom and the curvature of three bedroom doors side by side in that awkward architecture of the house.

 I'm room 1, my brother is room two, and my parents are room three. They're all roughly the same size. My room has a window, but my brother likes the dark, which is why he was fine with taking the middle room with no access to windows. 

My parents room faces the front facing side whereas my window is facing the back of the house, which doesn't have a yard more than the narrow slit before a direct fence that Mya still runs up and down anyway.

        Houses here don't have basements due to flooding issues and their nasty hurricanes. We've yet to face a really bad one. I hope we never do. Though, living close to the French Quarter means we're placed in the more ideal location even with the Mississippi River running through the area. 

It was good to be home. I'll always consider 'home' to be wherever my family is living regardless of state. We have a huge family, aunts, uncles, cousins, etc, but some still live in Portugal while others are living on the East Coast where we'd originally come from. 

        My parents are usually in bed well before 11pm because they wake up at dawn for their cleaning jobs and are now just accustomed to those hours. I would have to wait until the morning to see them.

Though my brother is only 19 he's much taller than me. Just under 6 feet if not 6 feet on the dot. It's funny because my parents aren't that tall. My Dad is probably 5'10 and my mother is 5'6 where I stand at 5'4 as the smallest in the house. My brother's a punk but I love him. 

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        "Why'd you only come with a bag?" My brother eyed me suspiciously. "Because I have half my stuff here. Why pay for luggage?" I lied more easily than it should have been. My house smelled familiar, like homes do. 

All the lights were off, and everything was silent since everyone was asleep. Once we got inside from the drive back from the airport I said goodnight. My parents are going to be so surprised. I'm excited for it, but I also have this nagging feeling in my gut about everything I left back home.

I'm trying not to think of it. Of the people left behind and of my apartment and new life. Even the belongings I wasn't able to bring back with me. Clearly I am not meant to live on my own in some new life because I am too naive to spot danger when it's right in front of me.

        It felt odd being in my stuffy bedroom though. It feels like a different person who has lived here. I have my full bed with a frilly comforter, and my white dresser and matching night table. One of those long fuzzy rose pink rugs too. 

The girl who lived here had only ever had one boyfriend, a community college, and a job first waitressing in the French Quarter, then eventually working for a temp agency that allowed me to do admin work in offices.