Don't look for happiness in public bathrooms
That was one thing Reigan Amoki had learnt in her 16 years, 9 months and 12 days she'd been living in Detroit. When she was little, she had used to pick through the debris and litter you'd find on the floor of most of the floor, looking for a toy, or a colourful muffin case. Scanning the walls, once she could read, for anything other than slander and profanities. But in this city, that was it.
She stood and washed her hands, the taps groaning with rust. She stared in the cloudy mirror, her dark eyes glaring right back at her. She looked the same as she did 6 months ago, which astounded her somehow. The world had turned 182 times, over 27 million people had died, countless babies had been born, people had screamed and cried and laughed and smiled, and she still looked the same. Same 3 freckles on her cheek, same thick eyebrows, same chocolate-y skin and midnight black wavy hair. Almost identical. Weird.
She walked out in a daze, lost in her own mind, not even registering the mixed aroma of the subway, stale crackers, BO and hurriedness. She missed the young boy on the piano accordion playing tirelessly, a few old men throwing quarters into his outstretched hat. She was oblivious as she walked up the stairs to her apartment (the lift hadn't worked since the roof fell on it.) She stuck her bronze key into the hole, twisting it slowly. She opened the door, still thinking of the gallery she'd open some day, featuring all her pieces that she'd painted in the air-conditioned study of her New York apartment, but then, all too soon, was inside.
And then she was awake again.
YOU ARE READING
REIGAN
Teen FictionTwo girls with the same name. They couldn't have more different stories than each other.
