dollhouse [brahms heelshire]

2

  The dinner was just as you expected.

It sucked, really.

Your moms boyfriend had a pretty weird personality, which you also knew was bound to happen. Boy, does she know how to pick them. He was the type to call the waiter by her first name, ask for some type of meal they didn't even have on the menu, then bombard you with uncomfortable questions.

"So, do you have a boyfriend?"

"What school did you go to? Where are you living?"

"I can tell you get your pretty looks from your mom."

"Wow, college! You didn't seem like the type."

A total prick. It took a lot of self control to contain the anger that was brewing.

His name was Ron. He sat awfully close to your mother throughout the dinner — his hand resting on her leg, their shoulders touching. You watched the way your mom nervously glances to him, as if she was questioning why are you touching me so publicly. It felt gross.

You wanted to ask why him. Why him out of all the other guys she could pick here.

"You're the hot foreigner from the city," you whisper shouted to her in the bathroom. "You don't even like him. I can tell!"

Your mom rolled her eyes, obviously frustrated that you confronted her. There had to be some part of her that was relieved that you noticed something was wrong.

"I do like him. It's none of your business, anyway."

"It is my business. You're my mom, I love you and I want to protect you. Especially from guys like that."

The argument didn't fall into your favor. She ended up ignoring all your worrying, acting as if you hadn't said anything at all. Once dinner ended, you shook hands with Ron as any polite person would, and said your goodbyes.

They offered to drive you back to the Airbnb, but you swiftly declined.

As much as having a free ride would be appreciated, your gut was telling you not to let Ron know where you were staying. It was just a safety precaution — he gave you a weird vibe.

Once you got back to the house, you immediately went to bed. You didn't even give those clothes you were missing a second thought.

The next day, in the late morning, you laid on the couch in the living room for a while, flipping through old magazines.

There's nearly nothing to do in this house. No WiFi. No tv.

Everything was fine. You were wearing fluffy socks, listening to downloaded music. For once in the abnormally large house, you were comfortable.

Except for the persistent banging coming from upstairs.

You looked up, towards the ceiling, brows furrowed. Rats? Rodents? You hoped to god that that's what it was.

You were able to ignore it, for a while. Flipping magazine pages and having to reread some lines over and over again because you couldn't concentrate. Because of that noise.

Groaning, you closed the magazine and tossed it onto the coffee table, wrapping your sweater tighter around yourself and venturing up the stairs.

Even if that small part of you was scared — only because of not knowing — your curiosity and annoyance got the best of you. Besides, if there was rats in the house, it'd be best for you to be sure. You could let the landlord know so she could get rid of them.