𝗕𝗨𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘

𝟲𝟬. 𝗚𝗼𝗻𝗲

I throw my bag to the side the minute the key turns, and hit my palm against the heating control when I'm enveloped into an apartment as cold as the weather. Beau's convinced the pair of us she's hot blooded, and I'm certain it's got to be worse than cold. There's only so much you can do to cool down without roaming the house naked. But I'd wrap her up in comforters and kindle a fire by hand just to provide her with some warmth if I had to. Dyson fan is pretty good though; silent, too.

I twist the shower nob until water is pouring down like hail, and steam coats our mirrors with a cast of cloudy grey that Beau usually draws our initials in hearts on. Bit of an exaggeration, actually. She rarely potters in, not a fan of the steam. We're kind of polar opposites when you think about it. She's always hot and I'm permanently cold, she brews coffee like it's her fix but I wouldn't be caught with a straw of hazel liquid shooting into my mouth even if it killed me. But that's just the small things.

I switch the light to our bedroom on, rushing to grab some briefs for when I'm done. I expected a mess, clothes that she decided on leaving back here strewn across the floor as I hop over them like lava. A few necklaces on the bed, those ones that go around her stomach aswell. It's like autopilot: turn the light on, and find a way to get to my dresser without adding to the mess. It was like that when she packed for Brazil, Chicago, the Hamptons last month and Venice last week.

So as I stare at our pristine wooden flooring, I cannot understand why it's not like that today. Why I could collapse on the bed should I want to, and not be punctured by the earrings she'd left behind. Why her drawers aren't all hanging open at different lengths— some just centimetres from being shut, whilst others halfway there.

I cross the room in half the time I usually would. Tired, confused, wary. It's not like Beau to care to tidy this one time, and we both know that time was something she didn't have much of. I tug my drawer forward and pick the first pair of Kleins I can see, desperate to get back to wherever I left my phone and use the damn thing to put my mind to rest.

I remember the first time my mom ever left me home alone. I didn't even know. Wondered in and out of each room looking for the woman who left without a sound in the world. You grow up hearing everyone go on about the joys of having the house to yourself, the things you can do. So I questioned why I had this inexplicably horrible feeling in my stomach when I realised I was all alone. The only one residing between a set of four walls.

I vividly recall dragging my childhood quilt down the stairs behind me, and tucking myself into the couch; a stale packet of barbecue chips on my lap. I didn't even like them then and I hate them now, but I couldn't reach the ready salted ones that mom would deliberately store higher since they were her favourite. She did that with a lot of things. Chips, those brunch bars covered in chocolate, bottles of cloudy lemonade. Anything nice was always out of sight.

I switched my favourite channel on and tried to ignore anything going on around me, which wasn't much. But I guess my thought process was that if I can't hear it, there's nothing there. In reality, it was probably the more dangerous option but I was seven and unprepared to fight off any possible intruders. I was seven and keeping a count of the hours that passed with no sign of Natalie.