As We Burn

Two.

It feels like I've stepped into an Alfred Hitchcock film - I have never seen a room so devoid of colour. The masculine scent of sandalwood hits my nose as I take in the strange sight before me. Three dark grey walls, and one with long white curtains. Behind them I can somewhat make out a view overlooking the pool. Lucky. The room is minimalistic and perfectly organized - unexpected, for a college boy. The dark hardwood floor contrasts a large, perfectly made white bed pushed up against one of the walls, and my eyes instantly travel to the polaroid photos stuck on the wall above the bed. I walk towards them quietly, as if I'm going to get caught. All of the photos are in black in white, and the first row looks like childhood photos. Small children playing, a blonde haired family standing together in the grass, and a little blonde boy smiling with a birthday cake. The candle on top is shaped like a dinosaur. That must be Crispen.

Despite the lack of saturation, I can tell he has bright, light eyes that stand out on his face along with his dimples. I look at the next row of photos below, and it's clear there's a time jump between them. The next photo looks like it's at some sort of nightclub, as three people stand together holding alcoholic drinks, strobe lights illuminating a crowd in the backdrop. I spot the little boy I saw before immediately, except this time he's much older. His piercing eyes have hardened, and the dimples no longer make an appearance. His bright hair is now a darker shade that falls in messy curls, nearly covering his eyes. He wears a black t-shirt with a collection of silver chains hanging around his neck. I can't help but notice how attractive he is, and I decide to move on to the other people in the photograph before the weird feeling stirring inside my stomach continues. On one side of him stands a shorter dark haired boy, with cat-like eyes and a devious smile. I notice his arm is placed behind Crispen's waist. The last person is a stunning girl wearing a black glittering dress, her smile genuine as she radiates natural beauty. I can almost hear what I imagine is her melodic laugh through the photograph.

I step away from the pictures. I shouldn't be in here. For some reason I feel more nervous now about living here than I did before. Well, not living here, but living with him. I don't have much - or any - experience around other men other than my neanderthal classmates from high school and my brother. Girls have always been so much easier to get along with, where as boys...it just never clicked the same, even though I am one. There hasn't been much progress when it comes to the same sex romantically, either. I've been on a few dates and heard of several different apps, but everyone was always interested in purely sex. I don't want to lose my virginity to a stranger; not that I think virginity is anything more than a social construct, but I do want my first time to be with someone who genuinely cares about me. I start to think of the plump, almost feminine shape of Crispen's lips from the photograph and those bright eyes... I shake my head of the thoughts, anxiety sprouting in my chest. I very rarely have thoughts like these, but I reassure myself that it's probably just all of the excitement and novelty of my new beginning in Laurelwood. I close his door, and my stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten all day and it's surely nearing two o'clock in the afternoon by now.

I make my way into the kitchen, opening up the stainless steel fridge doors. Elliot wasn't kidding when he said the fridge was stocked - every ingredient I could think of lay before me, four large rows of perfectly organized fresh food items. I spot a container of cherry tomatoes and a container of feta cheese, and an idea sparks in my mind. I check the cupboards and manage to find some bowtie pasta. Once I've discovered the pots and pans, a few more ingredients, and almost burned myself trying to start the stove, I let the water boil and head to my bedroom. Shuffling through one of my bags, I come across my weathered down photo journal. I feel a sharp sting in my chest and pick it up. The day I lost my father was the day I realized that every memory is fleeting and decided to actively pursue my love for photography. That's the thing with memories - the good ones fade almost as soon as they happen. But the bad ones...the bad ones burn themselves into your brain, itching and crawling around every day, making sure they will never be forgotten. I learned that moments are too special to rely purely on memory, and I wanted to keep them somewhere safe to look back on. I found an old polaroid camera at the thrift store, bought some film, and over the years I have been capturing anything that I don't want to forget. I flip through the pages of polaroids taped down, looking at all of my documented moments; Elliot's graduation, the sparkle of snowfall on Christmas morning, our cat Lyla curled up with a teddy bear. Over the years, the amount of special moments has waned. It's been almost a year since my last entry, a selfie I took with my acceptance letter from Laurelwood U. But even this moment is jaded, as I remember having to carry my mother to bed when she was too blacked out on the floor to wake up that same day. I put the journal on my bed and grab my MacBook, rushing back to the kitchen to check on the boiling pasta.