The Innkeeper

Chapter One

Okay, so i've not wrote for some time. probably not the best idea. I'm not proud of what i've done but it's a lot easier, like a lot, a lot easier. Than sitting down for hours and pouring out my feelings, thoughts of what's going on in my head. I know it's suppose to be a big help. Cleanse your mind and all but it's evidence, isn't it. Evidence you're not all perfect, evidence you're a pathetic excuse of a human being living their life. Evidence if someone came across it you'd be utterly fucked, fox in a hen house fucked. Reminds me of a dream. I can just imagine it now, coming in from walking the dog and mothers been in my room. Looking for a pen or whatever and she comes across it. For some reason she opens the A4 notebook, skips to the end where the good stuff is written. Her wide brown eyes scanning it's content. Is she getting angry, upset, scared or just confused? "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?" I hear a loud thud as she drops the notebook on the kitchen table. I know what it is. I turn to her as i'm drying my hands "What?" sounding as nonchalant as my nerves will let me. Angry, she is definitely angry. I can see it in her eyes, unflinching hard cold look she gives you. You just know she's not in a listening mood. Her face is red. "What is this Layla?" and a little puffy, has she been crying? No other than a sarcastic response from me "Uh it's a notebook mother".

"It's your notebook"

That wasn't a question. "Yes, looks it to me. You want to tell me why you have it and why you look like you've been slapped in the face?" I don't say the last bit of course, let me rephrase that. "Yes, looks it to me".

"You want to tell me what's all this crap"

Not really. "Crap! Well everyone has their own opinion"

"What?"

I'm still holding the tea towel, I turn to fold it and hang it over the oven handle to dry. My mother still standing there like a comic book statue. Hands out as if she's expecting a gift, face still beetroot. I turn to her again, put on a exasperated sigh "Why do you have my book with all my log-in details?"

"I haven't seen them, i'm talking about all the writing at the back"

"My thriller"

"Your what?"

My mother getting irritated at this point, she just wants answers. Well she's not getting any. "A thriller i'm working on. You know I write, what's up with you?" I turn the cold tap on, let it run for a second.

"So it's just a story you're writing because it sounds pretty much like"

I cut her off "Yes, haven't got a name for it so i'm open for suggestions" Her shoulders ease and her face is beginning to look normal again, looks like she's accepting this. I am good. I rinse a glass off the side and fill it with water. "Right i'm off upstairs to do some exercise and have a bath"

"Okay. Do you want some of these pork chops?"

"No thank you, see you in a bit". I take the notebook off the table and give my dog a kiss as i'm on my way upstairs.

Okay, so maybe it wouldn't be so bad if it went down like that. Still rather not have it come up, so I think i'll just keep tearing and binning the papers every so often. Better to be safe than have an even more paranoid mother, right?

It's 7.20pm and I have a very numb bum. I've been sat on the floor in-front of my door for a good forty minutes. This cold laminate isn't helping. I read somewhere that if you sit on a cold surface long enough, it'll give you piles. Maybe a little immature but I find it interesting, weird. Well my laminate isn't that cold anyway but I think i'll move to my bed. Much better. The nights are beginning to stay lighter for longer, soon the sun will come. It's still pretty much quiet for now. My windows are closed but I can hear children playing outside, the odd rawr of a moped or motorbike and cars pulling into or driving out the street every twenty minutes or so. It'll be much busier when it really starts to heat up. They'll be barbecues, lots of kids playing all day on the streets while their mothers sit out and chat on the stumps. Stumps if you were wondering are these wooden things, no bigger than a stool. They're spread apart from each other about forty centimeters, all along the street. I don't know what they are for. Perhaps so senseless people can't cut across the grass, to the bottom street in a police pursuit. They just get used as a place to sit and gather in the summer or as entertainment. As a little kid we'd see who could hop from one stump to the other the fastest, making it all around the street without falling off. A lot different to what most kids these days do for entertainment.

My bum isn't feeling as numb anymore. My mothers just got up, over slept her nap. As usual probably my fault. I can hear she's put on Emerdale and my stomachs making some unpleasant noises. I've not eaten since last night, well three in the morning when I couldn't sleep and decided to have a few strawberries. I'm not hungry but I should eat. Earphones, music, eat and take a walk.