a collection of my own work

my key's initial

A/N: um war is not over apparently i will never get over her. + most of this story is fiction bc i do not live in an apartment nor have a key w their initial nor did i break my mirror

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

   The double doors burst open. My feet and legs work together, lifting off the ground to come crashing back down and push my entirety towards the gates. The crisp, autumn wind rips through my hair as my legs work harder and harder, picking up the pace. I need to get out of here.

   Gasps of dry air travel throughout my body. Streams of oxygen in through my nose, down to my lungs, and back from my mouth. My heart beats rapidly, pumping and passing warm plasma throughout my veins. They're blue and purple in contrast to my pale arms.

   Legs speed past each other on the stairs of the apartment, hands graze over the ledges. I've made it to my door.

   Taking in one last final, deep breath of air, I throw down my bag. I crouch and fumble past the straps, trying to find the small zipper. My fingers pick it up, quickly unzipping my bag. I dig through it. Cold, pulsing hands pry the thin fabric apart. One picks up a shiny metal key while the other zips it back up.

   My thumb rubs over the initial carved into it. E. I don't take much time to look at it, however, and quickly shove the metal into the doorknob of my apartment. It twists in the hole, pressing the levers inside to open the door.

   Picking up my bag, I fall into the doorway. The bag is shot towards my bed. I regain balance as my leg goes to kick the door behind me, shutting it, as I turn around to lock it. My body slumps against the worn-down hardwood door. Pouting, softly blowing air past my lips, making them rumble. I'm home.

   This is my room. It's so... me. Decorated with fairy lights and plastic vines thrown astray across the ceiling. A cabinet layered with candles, pearl jewelry, and perfumes. A large clothing rack with only articles of clothing I love. Still, I'm not comfortable or happy. There's more I want. Something.

   After examining the artifacts of my cramped apartment, I stand up. As I walk over to the other door, my hand reaches out to the doorknob. The door twists open.

   The bathroom. It's not the fanciest, but it's tidy. I smile softly at my own bathroom.

   I take my sweater off and toss it into the laundry hamper. Then my pants. Then my undergarments. I turn the lever and hold out my hand to let the water rush over it. My feet press into the porcelain. I take a seat in the bathtub, knees pulled close to my chest. Despite its compactness, I'm relatively small, and I fit nicely. There's a pump for strawberry body wash, so I grab that and apply it to a sponge, scrubbing my body as efficiently as I can. There's no need to wash my hair today.

   My hands push the curtains back open and take a towel off the hook. It's plain, pure white with one long streak of silk cutting right through it. Water drips from the ends of my long hair. Beads trickle down my arms. I use the towel to rid myself of it.

The mirrors are foggy, blurred by steam. They should stay that way.

   I walk up to them, trying not to look at my reflection. But I look. On accident. I looked at my stupid face. My blood boils. I pick up my toothbrush, pulling my arm back as far as possible, and sling it back to make contact with the brittle glass.

   It divides into a spider's web. Big, practical pieces. Split into many pathways, tiny shards missing from each. The grace washes over quickly, though, as I realize what I have done. I destroy everything. Tears swell in my eyes out of guilt.

   I step out of the humid room, trying to dismiss what I did. The cabinet has been left open, so I dig through it to find a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. I turn around to grab my phone, headphones, sketchbook, and charcoal pencils from my bag. As I crawl onto the bed, my body shuffles into the soft comforter. I connect my headphones to my phone and turn on my playlist.

   In my sketchbook, dark, black lines intersect with each other on a fresh page. My fingers guide the art around for a while. The sounds are soft, comforting, and persevering as I keep scratching at the paper. Like popcorn, gently yet relentlessly popping until all of the kernels are done growing. Pop, pop, pop, over.

   The scribbles against the eggshell white begin to form a face. Pencil continuing, keeping on with pressing marks to the paper. Until it doesn't.

   Lead breaks. I back up from the paper to examine what I've done. It's them. I've drawn her. My eyes widen at the realization, hands quickly reaching for another, unbroken, pencil to scribble out what I've done. I have to move on.

   There's no other pencil. No other utensils. So my ugly hands reach out to the page, against the grit, and crumple it. The paper is still connected to the spine. I attempt again, ripping it apart this time.

   The paper-ball hurls at the trash bin, but I miss. I grunt. A small, hoarse, "Ugh." I haven't spoken in hours. My throat clears, but quickly gets stuck again as I begin to get upset.

   She is forever stuck in my head. I drew them. I cannot think of anybody else to be mine. I keep making mistakes. My bottom lip trembles as those tears come back to my eyes, this time with much more force.

   This should be over. I need to get a new key. One without her initial. I need to do something else. I spend so much time on them. I'm pathetic.

   But this feels... special. And what else would I do?