❝One doesn't need psychometric ability to understand.❞
A house seeker's love for interior design brings out the stories of people who lived out their lives in the homes that were made for them and possibly, generations of others soon after.
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I walk into Aurelia Faye's old room feeling like an intruder. It is natural to feel that way, especially when it is her old apartment with her mother being the landlord. Regardless of her not being there, everything feels out of place without her and me, a complete stranger is somewhat worsening the mood.
On the other hand, Aurelia's mother is a pleasant woman. The color of her lipstick matches the warmth of her smile while her dress compliments her hair. The organization and elegance of her appearance resemble the personality of a successful businesswoman. Something tells me that these attributes are very unlike to those of her own daughter.
Descending down the stairs of the townhouse, I scan the room in front of me. It is immaculate, tidy and sanitary. It is a production of the mother who spent hours shifting furniture, repainting walls, and setting pottery-made vases at the entrance of the door. It is apparent that the mother has a knack for aesthetics, minimalism being her one and only escapade. Truly the work of a designer is limitless.
The aura that is beneath the perfection says otherwise. Aurelia was once surrounded and fueled by entropy. Every time her mother tried to clean up her mess, it reappeared like crown fire. Simply unstoppable.
Eventually, the desire for space controlled every part of the daughter, causing her to pack her bags and leave. No more dirty socks hiding under the bed. No more multi-colored glitter on the floor. No more laughter of a girl who saw for nothing but the joy of life. No more of Aurelia Faye.
I cannot question the behaviors of a mother who is abandoned. Her smile is sickeningly artificial, brandishing melancholic somber at a double take. Her actions are just as noticeable. No matter how many times she holds back her tears, scrubs at the glitter encrusted floors, and rips up the posters of the retrograde bands Aurelia was once so fond of, every impression is useless. The shadows of a daughter who didn't get along with her mother are lingering like a ghost, haunting her ever so slightly.
