Call Me Home

Her room was at the heart of the house. It was above the kitchen, so you could always hear the telly if it was loud enough (and most of the time it was). You could even feel the floor vibrate under the weight of the speakers. She could always hear the knocking of someone at the door before anyone else. She could always hear the washer echo in the great white kitchen, the dryer in the living room, that no one but her brother uses to play his games (that she could also hear him yell at), the ice machine, the phone ring, the oven timer, yet she could never hear someone shouting her name. It would take a few goes and finally she’d hear through the noise of her music fighting to get louder than the one through her floor.

Open the door and there is no wall space to be seen. Maybe, if you squint really hard…you might…just about see a dusty old pink that was laid over a decade ago. Before this she had many a room in this house that she called her own. The room next door, still had the orange of her younger years, mobiles still there now coated in dust, old paintings of Winnie the Pooh lay flat onto of the wardrobes they were taken down to make room for. After that it was the blue box that now disgusts her, for its smell is of sweat and testosterone. A boy at the tip of puberty with sheets not washed in weeks. The room that if you step foot in, no doubt you will step on lego or cardboard crafts. This used to be her art room before he came along. The chalkboard still there that her and her best friend used to scribble on. Now that best friend has gone, they spoke once a year ago on their eighteenth birthday. They still remember. For years it’d pass by with a nod and it shall do so again until they are twenty-odd.

A new best friend has also now gone away. This one still talks everyday. Her room just as familiar. She misses her so much now she’s gone. Her best friend would stay over almost every month, a ritual they loved. Although her best friend didn't appreciate the early bird that always woke her up before noon, but the bed was so comfy, she’d mumble a ‘fuck off’ then snooze.

She loved her room cause it was so inexplicably her, paint on the wall, stains of tea on the floor, pictures that festered until they reached the ceiling, memories she couldn't help but loose herself in before she slept. A bookcase too big but still too small. Notepads, records, plants. It housed all and more. A childhood habit of collecting things… rocks, pinecones, caps and leaves all displayed on the windowsill. Only now she knows what each one means. One. a rock from Iceland’s volcanic shore. Two. Sea glass made into a mobile but too much fun to run with her brother to collect the sit in a bowl and catch sun. waiting to be next. Three. Bottles with plastic flowers that her nan made, she doesn't like them but she cant bring herself to throw them away. Her family are similar in that sense, thats why her room is home to the castoff furniture. Nothing matches in her room. Much like her and thats why it’s comforting. Much Like her.