The Vandeviere Hotel 》H.S.

one

one

So far, I think I've been a good person. And believe me, it was hard to be one if you've lived a life like mine.

I attend every single one of my college classes, I do my homework, I study hard, I eat my vegetables, I donate to charity whenever I can, I do my chores, I hear mass every Sunday... the usual things a good person does.

So, I think my father could have understood when I decided to run away.

I had quickly stashed a few thousand pounds into the pocket of my coat, more than enough to last me a few months, and I left a little apology note on the counter, just in case my roommate actually noticed I wasn't present.

I don't think she'd mind much. Immy and I hardly conversed, only sending each other a small smile here and there. That's basically it -- which makes it so much easier to leave.

I wrapped my mother's scarf around me tightly like a noose and proceeded to head outside quickly, my two bags in hand and my phone in the other.

It wasn't like I hated my home. My roommate kept to herself most of the time, so I wouldn't miss her much. My father tries his hardest to sustain both our lives, sending me money every other week for college tuition, which is why he hardly ever is at home when I visit, while my mother is six feet underground, probably a mass of bones and dust now.

I used to like to think that she would come back to me, because she always did when she was alive.

Whenever we pay visits to the groceries, I'd always somehow lose her among the tall aisles and foul stench of raw meat and fish, but she'd always find me.

Or on the busy, bustling streets of London would I so often lose grasp of her soft hand, but she's never failed me, finding me bawling my eyes out on a little corner, curled up in a ball, sobs racking my entire body.

But death found her sooner than any of us would have expected.

My mother had a heart of a horse, despite being in her late 40's. She was determined and strong and so beautiful, everything I wanted to be. She was perfect. But her lungs weren't as healthy as they used to be because of the cigarettes and chemicals she would so often inhale, corrupting and destroying her insides, and she passed away when I was too young to even tie my shoelaces.

No one had found me in between the aisles where the crisps and crackers were in the supermarket. I had to find my father myself. No one was there to carry me home while I was still curled up in a little ball, dirty from sitting in a dusty corner.

Which is why I took initiative and decided to find myself instead.

As I walked down the somber sidewalk of Brighton road, which was the closest road to where I used to live, I clutch a small, crumpled piece of paper in my hand. I decided that it wasn't safe to bring my phone out at this part of London at midnight, but neither was walking alone a good idea.

So, I had written the address of the hotel I would be staying in for a little while until I know what to do with my life. I guess I hadn't thought this out well.

"Brighton Road, number 315." I mutter, blowing my hair out of my eyes. I felt a rush of independence surge through me. If I had decided to run away last year, I don't think I would have had the guts to. Now, look where I am now. Baby steps, Flynn.

A few minutes later, I decide I'm lost, and the pride and independence I felt earlier drains away, leaving a scared, cold little girl as residue.

I haven't been in this part of London yet, and if I have, it was too dark to even be recognizable. The lamps that lined up across each other along the road flickered every few seconds, sending chills down my spine. The atmosphere grew colder and colder, my thick clothing doing nothing to warm me in any way. And maybe I was being paranoid, since I've never gone out at this time of the night alone before, but I swear it felt as if someone was watching me, as cheesy as it does sound.