BLACK ROSE

The new kids are drug addicts

Ashley. 

What good did this decision do us?

I sit down on the couch, looking around. It's breathtaking and elegant, with simple minimalistic colours and decorations. Yet all I see are memories of my old life, the one my father desired so much to escape. For what reason I don't know. He stayed living in that little bubble of pain and memories and misery for longer than I can remember, when his sudden desire to move took over. If he had moved all those years ago I suppose I wouldn't mind, I'd have no choice and nothing to argue with. But now, taking my life away from me and forcing me to start a new one at a place I never even picked out myself... It leaves me with rage.

I chose our new house. I guess he thought it would make me feel somehow better, including making the decisions. I'm not sure what was going through his head when he placed the stock of house magazines on my table. He let me choose it, and the aesthetic too. I'd be grateful if I wouldn't be so raging.

Unable to break my old habits I chose a big house, and of course elegant. A house can tell you a lot about the person too, so I've been told once. It's a resemblance of your status and power, so always choose the best, someone else told me years ago. Advice or not, I followed their words. Most would say it's a stunning house and would love to call it their own. But what's the point of choosing the biggest and prettiest house when you live alone?

He said he'd change, but I'm no fool. I know he won't be home; he wasn't back in Florida, he won't be in New York either. It's nothing I can blame him for, because if I were him, I'd be away all the time too.

I chose this house hoping it would remind me of our old house the least. It seemed to have the least resemblance. Futuristic, is what my father called it. Very minimalistic even from the front. The house we lived in in Florida was bigger than this one, and more classical. It was obvious from the first look that wealthy people lived in it. Something about it always screamed "we're very rich and you aren't". At least that's what I saw every time I looked at it. I hate the suffocating feeling inside.

So I chose something different. A minimalistic white house with two stores and a big garden. No porch, nothing eye-catching other than the house. The driveway is rather long, though, which might catch the attention of by-passers. The only thing I'm getting used to is the black colour making a big part of the exterior. It's surrounding the windows and the whole garage gate is black. It's a minor detail I'm convinced I can get used to as time goes by.

My father called his friend and got himself some interior designers. He told me to communicate with them and boss them around, but still wanted them to do the job. They're not bad, their skills are useful, but every once in a while I move a few decorations around.

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When we moved here a week ago, all I wanted was to go back to Florida. I wanted to leave and go back home, back to my old life. The idea of being abducted from my old life scared me. It made me so angry I didn't know what to do. How dared me take me away from my friends and life just because he suddenly realised running away was the best option? I was foolish to think my friends would have trouble replacing me. I thought we had better relationships and were closer, I thought they would miss me and want me to come back, I thought the world would stop just for a moment without me. I was stupid to think I was someone they cared about. I wasn't even away for two days, and they already seemed to have forgotten about me. Two days passed by, and a new girl had already taken my place. At first it felt heartbreaking, but now... through the pain and disappointment I can only laugh at them. I was never the glue, let's see who was.

I leave the living room and walk up the stairs to my room. It's still empty and undecorated, with only a bed in the middle and desk. All my belongings are still in the moving boxes, stacked up in the corners of my room. I can't bring myself to unpack them, to even try to take the things out of them.