Fifteen.
I don't know how long we were there like that for, but when finally we had pretty much the entire bar's attention, I slid down to plant my feet on the ground again. My eyes were filled with the hurt and the pain within me, while yours were filled with longing and passion, as well as anywhere between one and a million questions- questions that you didn't ask, much to my appreciation.
Instead, you grabbed my hand, and with four words, led me out the door.
"Let's go home, baby."
I didn't see why we had to go anywhere to be home, because everywhere was home, so long as you were there. We didn't speak as we walked. There was nothing to say, yet too much to put into words.
We walked through the bar, and through a dimly lit hallway with what looked like an ancient payphone. There was a little wooden bench between the two bathroom doors, accompanied by some sort of fake and rather dusty pot plant. You pulled out the keys to the door at the end of the hallway.
We walked about three stories' worth of stairs, before your keys unlocked another door. I stepped into a large room, which included a corner for the kitchen, and a large living room, entertainment kind of area. Three lounges, a recliner around a coffee table, an entertainment unit seating a big, a stereo, and speakers, which were accordingly large. The big window made for a nice view of this part of the city, which looked deceptively beautiful and peaceful from here. I loved cities at night, always have. There was an element of amazement, knowing that from here the city looked quiet, but as soon as you got into it, it'd be full of life, fun, laughter, and way too many people. I liked the view better, to be honest.
You closed the door behind me, and put the keys on the kitchen counter, as I just stood, taking it all in.
"Why is it this feels more like home, than home does?" I whispered.
"Because you know that no one's going to hurt you here."
You put your arms around me, and I closed my eyes. A single tear ran down my cheek. You pulled away just a little bit, and lifted your hand to wipe the tear from my face with your thumb. You kissed my forehead.
"Go sit. I'll make some coffee and food."
I did as I was told, and took a seat on the lounge facing the big window. My legs drawn up to my chest, I rested my chin on my knees, and just stared. I heard a cling and clatter from the kitchen, as you moved mugs, made coffee, and searched for food.
"Do you live here by yourself?"
"Nah. You know the guys I was playing pool with downstairs?"
"Yeah?"
"They both live here too."
"Yet you have three lounges and a recliner?"
"Another mate of mine lived here too. But he moved in with his girlfriend a while ago."
"Ah."
You'd think that silence would have been awkward, but it wasn't. Silence, with you, was never a bad thing, somehow. I kept looking around, subconsciously trying to guess what stuff was yours, and judging by the other stuff, what your friends were like. It didn't take me long to really like it here - the random array of mismatched furniture had a homely sort of appeal to it.
I leaned back and closed my eyes, taking it all in, trying to figure out what happened tonight. My life had changed forever. Sure my liking of Dad hadn't been great over the last few years, let alone my liking of Kate, but I'd still trusted him. It was weird to realise that. I hated spending time with him, I couldn't stand all the things he wanted me to be, all the rules he made, and how he tried to shape me to precisely what he needed me to be. But deep down, I'd trusted him. Which was a miracle, after what happened a few years ago, that led to Benn and my original break-up. But my trust for him was gone now, and with it quite a chunk of my faith in humanity.
You sat down next to me, handing me a cup of coffee. I wrapped my hands around the mug, in search for warmth. But the cold I was feeling wasn't solvable by warm coffee mugs. Nor was it solvable by blankets, jumpers, hot bathes. The cold came from within, and it was painfully chilling, stabbing, like a thousand little tiny knives inside of me. I kept staring out the window, like a bird in a cage stares outside, wishing it could be up there sailing through the sky.
A nearly invisible shiver went through my body. I should've known you'd notice, and I smiled a little as you put your arms around me, and just held me. I sipped my coffee. When the cold had gone a little bit, I put my mug down on the table, and we lay down. I rested my head against your chest, and closed my eyes. You ran your hand softly along my hair, and kissed the top of my head.
And that's when I found the feeling I'd been aching for- I didn't know what it was. It was emptiness, but it wasn't empty. But the cold within me faded, and then, for just a moment, it stopped hurting. I completely lost it then. I broke down, and just cried. You held me close, and ran your fingers softly through my hair. I love how you've always known when to just hold me, and let me cry.
"What happened, Bec?" you whispered.
When I was eleven years old, my mum didn't come home one day. Six years ago today, actually. Go figure. The housekeeper told me she'd be home soon, and while I was a little bit worried, I settled for that. She'd been away for a while then, and I missed her a lot. I remember hating how much she had to work lately. And this two-week business trip she'd embarked on? What a joke. I couldn't believe she'd leave me with the stupid housekeeper for that long. I hated the housekeeper, and she hated me too. For some reason, which I couldn't figure out at the time, she started being a lot nicer that day though. When I told her I missed my mum, she expressed the first ever sincere words of sympathy, and hugged me really tight. I was inexplicably confused.
I suppose, on some level, I always knew there was more to it. But for God's sake, I was eleven. I was naive. I'd been sheltered and well taken care of by a loving mother. I was oblivious to all evil in the world; I could never even imagine just the faintest touch of deception in anyone. Sometimes, I missed those times. I missed not knowing what hurt was, I missed loving without being betrayed, I missed having things that actually mean something to me. But then I think about where that got me, and I realise why I am the way I am now.
Dad came home about a week after that. His eyes were bloodshot, his expression cold, yet distraught somehow. In the years to come, I remembered so many things, noticed so many details, I didn't even see at the time- for every second was still clear in my mind, like a million coloured snapshots, keeping every detail forever in my head.
"Where's mummy?" I asked him.
"Rebecca..." he shook his head.
He sat me down. I remember feeling like something was wrong. The air had a bitter kind of taste to it, and the housekeeper discreetly left the room. I sat patiently, cross-legged on the leather couch, watching my father's face with big, curious eyes. It never truly entered my mind that something could be wrong.
"Rebecca, love..."
Dad never called me love. And he only called me Rebecca when I was in trouble. I cocked my head to the side, continuously blissfully clueless.
"Mummy's not coming home." He finally said.
