The Boy Who's On An Adventure

Chapter 2 (First draft of chapter 2)

7:30am.
Another, normal day.

I lie in bed still half asleep I should probably get up if I want to make it there on time. Not like there's much point but it gets me up, one less reason to stay in bed

I force my eyelids open and stare at my ceiling at the yellow mold which as the days go on is growing more vibrant, splashing my ceiling. Giving some characteristic to the dull room.

Groaning I roll on the brown springy mattress, if I can even call it that; it's deformed and barely one piece.

I turn on my side to face the window. The window is home to many woodlouse. It's dark brown oak frame is cracked and scratched with visible holes in the pane letting in burning light and cold wind.
The pane is barely see through, and is covered with many webs and splashes of paint.

I now glance at my Victorian style door, half expecting someone to knock on it. The same door holds so many memories which I wish I could forget.

It is dark red-like brown and it goes into a lighter brown at its edges with scratches of naked blonde wood, it's past-life's colour.

Turning around I face it, it's clinging on to it's crooked door frame half open, half closed.

It looks as if it's just a piece of wood attached on to the wall the only way you can identify or more like guess, that it's a door is by imagination and its singular rusting brass handle.

I let my thoughts run away for a few minutes, perhaps the brass handle was a gift, perhaps a wedding gift as it seems handmade, perhaps by the owners brother who was a blacksmith or carpenter.
I don't know why I waste time on these 'silly day dreams' as Sarah called them and my therapist called them coping mechanisms, she's stupid that's why I stopped seeing her. Both of them.

I feel as though I know the family who once lived here very well, as if I was great friends with them, it makes me feel less like I'm in some random strangers house.

Another few minutes past, feeling like hours

Finding strength I'm surprised I even have I finally drag myself up of the safety and comfort of my bed, limping lazily towards the bathroom.

I subconsciously begin rubbing my eyes filled with sleep and dirt, I instantly regret it as they burn from the mud under my nails.
I step over loose nails that stick up from the rotting floorboards, I've stood on them multiple times, and it's not an experience I wish to repeat.

Many insects crawl out of the floor boards frantically from my startling movement.
I watch blankly, as they creep out each of them unique.
Probably wondering what I'm still doing here, well.. so am I.

I shrug to myself. Continuing to walk, I don't need to look at the ground, I know where all the nails are.

As I enter the bathroom, shivering, there is no window, just a hole in the wall reminding that there was, once.

I step on the few remaining white tiles, being careful not to stand on the weak floorboards with shattered glass covering most of their surface, making them nearly invisible.
I take my time watching as the tap drips, I should fix that, but I know I never will.
At least there's water here, I'm lucky, though it's far from clean.

As soon as I make it downstairs I rush grabbing my old school bag and shove an apple and my worn out wine sweater in it, I don't think I could even call it a sweater in its current state.

My footsteps echo in the uncomfortably still, corridor reminding me of how lonely it is here.
It's better than in my old cottage. Our cottage. I can't go there without them.
It would feel wrong.

So.. that's why I'm here, living my life to the fullest as I promised them I would. But forgotten from the world.