BLACKHOUSE [H.S.]

Two

After about ten minutes of walking and borderline hyperventilating, I finally reach my apartment building. My feet quickly take me up the white cement stairs, almost tripping once I reach the top due to my panicked state. I use my key card to let myself into the building and race down the hallway towards my door, unlocking it and shoving my way inside.

As soon as I'm safe in my apartment I collapse onto my knees, finally releasing all of the built up emotions from the last hour.

"Why would I do that? What the hell is wrong with me?" I cry into my hands. Tears are streaming down my face, my mascara likely running as well.

I live in a tiny studio apartment near Hollywood, all by myself. The rent isn't cheap, even though it's really just one big room, and I just quit my job without any sort of back up plan. I don't know what came over me; I feel so stupid.

I have been wanting to find a new job for months, but not like this. I'm not an impulsive person, I'm a planner; very "type A". I always have been, so this is completely out of character for me. Plus, I was making pretty good money in tips alone at Genevieve's, enough to scrape by at least, and now I'm completely fucked.

I slowly stand up and peel my jacket off of me, tossing it on the floor to my left. I make a mental note to deal with it later. I turn right, going into the bathroom and flipping the lights on. When I look in the mirror, I cringe at my reflection. My shoulder-length brown hair is a mess, the natural waves messy from the walk home and the tears that have soaked the strands near my face.

Unsurprisingly, my crying has caused my mascara to leave two dark streaks below my eyes, almost reaching my chin. My eyes are puffy and red; I definitely look like I've been through some shit today.

I glance down at my arms in the mirror, still damp from my tears and sticky from making drinks at work, they're littered with the tattoos I've collected over the years.

On my left arm, I have a floral sleeve with roses and peonies in different pinks, reds and purples, while on my right I have a sleeve of a snake that I started about a year ago but have yet to finish. Tattoos are expensive; there's no way I'll be finishing it anytime soon with my current situation.

I sigh and grab the micellar water and cotton squares I keep under my bathroom sink, pulling one of the soft, white pads from its package. I drench the cotton in the makeup remover and begin to rub my face to take off the smudged makeup, while trying to avoid the single nose rings I have in each nostril, and the stud right above my lip in the center of my Cupid's bow. The soft bathroom light is reflecting off of the silver jewelry.

Once I get all of the stained mascara off of my face, I throw my hair up in a big clip and step out of the bathroom, turning the lights off as I go.

When I reach my fridge, just a few feet away, I open the door and grab the bottle of cheap rosé I always have on hand. I don't even bother getting a glass, I just carry the whole bottle with me to my white, faux-leather couch and plop down right in the center, grabbing my laptop from the coffee table in front of me and setting the wine on the glass surface.