A World Alone

Chapter 5: Royals

I dream about a box on Saturday night. It's a small one, and it's got notes inside. I try to take them all out, but they never seem to cease —there are always more of them, in different shapes and colors. Some of them are dusty and unclean, while others are bright as new and look beautiful. The handwriting isn't always the same, but for some reason, my head knows they've all been written by the same person —whoever they are.

I wake up half past nine that morning, and for a second, I fear I'm being late to school. Of course I'm not, because it's Sunday, it's June, and I'm actually in my house, not in my dorm. I don't share this room with anyone, I don't have teachers opening the door for me and waking me up if it's late, I don't have bells that ring the second a class is about to begin, or when it ends... I've got none of those here.

It's not actually awful, because I don't really like waking up at like six in the morning, and neither do I enjoy having people on my back constantly telling me what I should do, or threatening me to give me a punishment if I don't do those things, but at the same time... well, I don't really like this house. My house was in Argentina, in Bariloche, and not even when my mom moved us back here I had a home again, not like that first one, at least. The one in Bariloche was surrounded by houses in which other family members lived in; my grandparents, my cousins, aunt and uncle... I had a good time there, every single day of my life for five years. I had friends in primary school, and I learned English but I didn't speak it daily unless I was talking to my dad, or I was visiting him, or he was visiting me. I really liked him back then, by the way. He was always a good guy, that's not up to discussion, but when I used to see him like three times a year, he was the coolest one. He was always consenting me and taking me to movie sets when I was visiting him, and I'd take him to the beach and to cool spots in the city when he was visiting me.

One summer, as soon as I finished school, my mom told me we were moving back to California, like we used to live when I was a baby, before my parents divorced and we moved back to my mom's hometown. The news came out of nowhere, it was strange, and it was completely horrible. I wanted to stay in Argentina, I didn't want to move back to California, and I wanted to keep on living the same life I had been leading since I was a kid. Yet, my mom was dating this guy who lived there, and since they wanted to actually start a family or something, we just moved back to the States. Then my mom and his husband, along with their son and my stepsister moved all to London... and, well, that's the chain of events that got me here, basically.

The house's empty when I get downstairs in order to get breakfast. I remember my dad mentioning something about the girls going to a friend's birthday party that's like an hour away from here and lasts for the entire day, because their friend's got a pool and their parents are friends with my stepmother and stuff. Funny thing, since my dad's always working but for some reason he agrees to do these things that could basically be done by just my stepmother... he's currently working on the post-production of his latest movie, and when he's in this mood, he doesn't have time for anything. Sometimes he'd invite the crew over for lunch or dinner and they'll discuss scenes, or things, and some others he'll just limit himself to work all day away from home, coming to sleep, and then leaving before anyone else wakes up. Most of the times, I'm away at school, so I don't really care, but I've got to admit that I wish I cared... sometimes it's the same and I don't give a damn, but some others I wish I was a kid again, you know what I mean? I wish we could have the same relationship as before... and same goes with my mom, and even with my stepsister. Since they live in London is like I don't even know them, especially Lily... it's more than an ocean away, it's a life away from me... and I hate it, honestly.

I went out with my old group of 'friends' last night, and even if I didn't really stay out for a long time, it actually felt so strange that I don't even know why I did that. I felt like the same girl who started going out some years ago and who wore colored wigs because she felt somewhat more confident about herself while wearing them. That girl, that fourteen-year-old, she came back and made an appearance last night again after so many moments and times, and I felt as I needed to hide behind a wig again.