#Hashtag [on h o l d]

f o u r: Hypothermia

f o u r: Hypothermia

It felt as if I had consumed “The Book Thief” in a single breath. As soon as I had closed that bundle of pages, which had swiftly become unquestionably significant to me, I felt completely exhilarated however the preceding events had left hollowness in my heart that the book thief had only temporarily filled. Once again, my consciousness invaded me with questions I was better of not knowing the answer. Things about myself that I didn’t want to admit.

Hoisting up from the bed with new-found determination, I had finally gotten out the house, carefully side stepping the disaster my father had left in his path. Broken vases, shattered vintage furniture and torn  antique curtains: a side of my father he would’ve never wanted the public to know. I felt a twinge of sympathy for Amary, our cleaning lady who would have to clean his turmoil with curiosity devouring her.

Her envy for any gossip was vexatious and bothersome. Like a peculiar boy who liked to make spontaneous appearances in my strain of thoughts, a boy with pretty eyes and an equally disastrous pretty boy issues.

It seemed that the summer holidays had began majestically. Rain pummeled to the ground like infuriated bullets, which soon hammered my back and soaked me with a record time of half a second. By the time I had ran, slipped and stumbled my way to the local library, I was sneezing and coughing violently as violent shiver raked throughout my body, and this wasn’t the worse part of this whole ordeal; the library paraded a pretty sign which indicated it’s inability to feed my sudden lust for ink and paper.

In the middle of god knows where, I stumbled for what seemed hours covering my book the best I could and desperately seeking shelter.

The luminous lights* that accompanied the rather famous Starbucks sign, beaconed me over, and once again, I ran, slipped and stumped over to the glass door. After a few minutes of wrestling with the door handle, which was wet and slippery, not to mention that the rain fell so thickly I felt as if I was taking a stroll in the ocean. I cursed whoever was inside that had decided to be a pain in my royal ass by refusing to simply open the door.

It was simple curtsy, not math.

So that is how I ended up in Starbucks, close to midnight and on the brink of hypothermia with my precious bundle of pages safely tucked under my arm, lips blue and trembling. As well as the current loss of feeling in my toes for which I was increasingly getting worried about. I still was awed of how I even managed to enter the shop, I could feel a blossoming bruise on my forehead from the times I had simply walked into the door. The cold was doing something to my brain.

I felt sorry for whoever owned this little shop, or the waiter/waitress who had the misfortune to witness a totally dazzled girl barge in, drenched from head to toe, soiling the coffee stained carpet with enough water to quench the thirst of little African children (maybe not), and holding unto a book like it was the Holy Grail.

As I blinked the water clear of my sight, I noticed the tall boy standing behind the counter facing away from me, who seemed engaged in whatever he was doing, to the point where he entirely dismissed my brash entrance, which hadn’t been particularly discreet either. Not to mention that we were the lone Homo Sapiens in this room (there was a caged Psittaciformes…a parrot). I could not help feel slightly offended. I penguin-walked to the counter, a trail of water loyaly following me. My poor dead mother had thought me to address strangers politely no matter the situation. Too bad insolence was my forte.

“Are you deaf? Or could you not hear me banging on the bloody door like bloody Santa?” I hissed, anger and bitterness lacing my voice. “Not only deaf but visually impaired as it seemed that you have failed to notice me dripping on your carpet. Your lack of observation skills excels expectations.”