THE HARBOUR [EDITING]

Awakening To Horror - Edited

Her eyes open abruptly to the low hum of a phone vibrating. She lifts herself onto her elbows- her eyes stinging, her body aching. She is all at once aware of where she is and what she'd done the night before. Her cheeks colour at the mental reminder, filling her with a strange sense of euphoria. When Daisy set out to charm Wes, she hadn't expected it to go so well, to be that easy. And least of all, she hadn't expected it to be so... good. She shakes her head gleefully, half forgetting why she set her sights on him initially. The phones vibrating seizes.

She sits up and sighs a carefree sigh- taking in her surroundings. Last night, she'd been too enamoured with Wes to scrutinise his place (not that judging people's homes is something she takes pleasure in).

Daisy sits up, taking her feet off the bed and digging them into the carpet beneath her feet. It's soft and considerable. It covers a quarter of the room, though most of it is laid underneath the bed.

It's beige- a repugnant colour. Incongruous with the rest of the room, which is a flattering dark grey. Who buys a beige carpet for their grey room? She smiles to herself. She stands up and tours the room slowly. Not minding that she is completely naked. She walks towards a clothing rack a few paces away from the bed- traces her fingertips over the railing and over his assortment of clothing. It's mostly jackets, coats, and flannels. She shakes her head slowly. Of course, he wears flannels she mentally teases.

Above the rack is an arrangement of framed abstract art. She can't tell what any of it is- of course, it wouldn't be called abstract if she could tell what it was. One of that paintings- a black, red, and orange amalgam stands out to her, calls to her almost. It doesn't particularly look like anything, and at the same time, it looks like everything. A medley of colours and shapes so enthralling- that if you look at it long enough, it almost seems like the shapes and colours are stuck in a passionate dance of control together in a never-ending abyss- pulling you in as you stare. Her breath catches, and she tears her eyes away from the haunting painting.

She strides toward the jet-black coffee table, a meter away from the foot of the bed. It sports a half drank glass of water. She flushes at the sight of the glass. She drank from it last night after they'd.... She giggles.

Next to the glass is a book: The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. It reads. She cocks an eyebrow curiously, opens it at the bookmark and reads: With an effort I managed to restrain my incredulous laughter. The very phrases were worn so threadbare that they evoked no image except that of a turban- She slams the book shut, as if reading more would mean catching an uncurable infection. Daisy has always found The Great Gatsby excruciatingly boring. However, she would've never guessed that it would be the kind of literature Wes found interesting.

A few feet away from the coffee table is a black dresser with four compartments. She taps the top mindlessly as she skims over the array of cologne, body lotion and generic hair products. She picks up a bottle that reads "Shampoo" and grimaces at it. What a terrible thing to put in your hair. She thinks. She pops the cap a takes a whiff. Her nose scrunches at the strong scent, she shuts it immediately. Wishing she'd never touched it in the first places.

It was impossible not to acknowledge the staggering difference between her home, the homes she has been in throughout her life and this one. This one was. . .cozy. Small, but charming. A place she would never in a thousand years see herself living, but not a complete wasteland. Daisy has lived in Caper her entire life and this is the first time she has set foot in Flint. It isn't what she expected- she expected much worse.

She couldn't put her finger on what kind of person Wes was, albeit she always had a knack for figuring out who people were by what and whom they surrounded themselves with.