FOCUS ON ME [h.s.]

chapter one

PART OF HIM BELIEVES THAT he doesn't like wearing shoes inside the house because of his upbringing: he was raised by a mother who scolded him when his trainers were more than five feet away from the front door, a woman who would nearly faint at the sight of the muddy trails he and his sister would leave on the laminate after a rainy day. He also doesn't like the dusty treads he would leave in his trail — the sight of the footprints doesn't bother him, but rather the unnecessary effort it would take to clean it up. The high pitched squeak that sounds every time his sole hits the marble tile he could do without, as well.

However, he isn't thinking about that as he lunges forward to tie up his shoes, cursing silently when he pulls one of the laces too far, making him have to redo it. He twists the last remaining ring he has on around his finger, tugging it off and tossing it into a kitchen bowl as he passes. The sound of his footsteps bounce off the low walls of the living area and off the sleek, white couches donning pillows glued into their upright position. Even the books thrown onto the center table are statues in the sunlight streaming through the brilliant glass windows, echoing the sense of solitude that's become all too familiar to him.

Plucking his house keys off of the hook by the door, he nearly drops them before sliding them into the pocket of his shorts with a huff. The soles of his shoes squeal against the tile as he reaches forward and throws the door open, and for a brief moment he wonders if, perhaps, he should have worn more than just his thin white t-shirt to welcome the gust of wind that has slithered its away around his body. But the thought is shrugged off as he immediately takes a deep breath, savouring the cool air and ambient silence as it hits him.

As he shuts the door behind him, he runs his free hand through his hair, the clip holding his bangs back quivering at the touch as he loops his fingers through his curls and tucks the longer stray ones back behind his ear. His steps are determined, his arms locking into a rhythm as he takes the paved stairs two at a time. The grass decorating the sides of the path gradually mixes into dirt as he nears the end of his property line, the red dust becoming unsettled in the breeze. He doesn't have to look up to be aware of the lines of hedges on either side of him that are following the dip in the hill, nor the thick brush of trees and flowers behind him, the ones covering the front of his house from curious onlookers.

A few years ago, he would've thought the idea of having to leave his house through his backyard was ridiculous, but now, he's taken this path out of the back door of his home so often that he wonders if he should consider it to be his front door instead. It would, he thinks, be absurd for any other person to have to deal with in their daily life, but he frankly doesn't mind; realizing that his backyard was as good an exit as any had been one of his best discoveries since he moved in. That, along with a successful court order against people lingering within a certain distance from his house, resulted in him being able to go almost completely unseen when he leaves the confines of his home if he does it right.

It's crazy, really, to think about from an outside perspective, but it's become disgustingly normal to him.

With a sigh, he slips on his headphones before stepping out onto the side street that weaves behind his house. Despite the sunlight beaming down on the road, the street is baron, save for the the few bits of stray gravel and bushes tossed onto the side of the road, hugging the metal railing that is keeping them from falling off the next edge. The scene lacks color; even the grass has shrunken away from the intense Californian heat, leaving only the same red dirt in its place.

His phone is heavy in his pocket, so he takes it out, ignoring the countless text messages and business emails littering his screen and instead sliding the volume up. Its sound is a sigh of relief in his ears, and he almost closes his eyes in just pure appreciation of the beat thumping through the cord and the slick melody of Fleetwood Mac. The music pours into his mind, and before he knows it his legs are moving, pressing forward in time with the rhythm. His arms pump at his sides, going faster as he gains momentum down the winding hill. The sunglasses sitting atop the bridge of his nose jostle slightly with his uneasy pace, and he moves a hand to push them back up into position.