The Art Of Noticing

Chapter Three: Starting fires.

I didn't have much interest in reading anymore, so I made my way home to my house on 41st Avenue.

The time was 5:10.

In a way, coming home felt like going to a stranger's house. It always took a moment for my brain to register the house as the place where I lived. Not because the people who resided in the house were evil. They weren't.

I knew they weren't.

I could hear the clinking of pots and pans from the kitchen, and the chatter of the television as I walked through the door.

"Sebastian? That you?" Mom called.

After closing the door, I made my way to the stairs. I came to a halt in front of the kitchen island once my mother was in my field of vision.

"Yeah, it's me." I answered unenthusiastically.

"You're home pretty early."

"Yup." I replied, turning towards the stairs.

"Wait, hold on," mom said with a smile, stepping in front of the staircase that led down to my bedroom.

She pulled my arm, forcing me to face her.

"I feel like I barely see you," she laughed, only half kidding.

I shrugged, "You see me at dinner,"

"Yeah, I know. It's just-" her smile started to fade, "there used to be a time when you'd come home and love telling me about your day."
I shrugged again, "There's nothing to tell."

She sighed.

"Can you let me go now?"
She nodded, faking a warm expression, letting me walk past her.

I walked downstairs to my room and put my stuff down. My room wasn't spectacular or anything. It was in the basement. Well, my room was the basement.

I know that sounds depressing but it was actually quite nice. There was a fully functional bathroom and carpet covering the whole floor. The walls were gray and there were LED strips on the ceiling.

I had a desk with one of those old typewriters where I would write and read and do homework and school projects. I had one of those vintage record players, the ones with those wooden cases, and I had a tall shelf filled with the records I had collected over the years.

I had a special love for artists like Elton John or Jim Croce or When In Rome. I would make mixtapes with this cassette player I fished out of a dumpster a while back, and I would put on different songs that I appreciated.

There was a different mixtape for every mood. "Bohemian Blues" or "Rain Showers" or "Fall To Remember" or "Midnights".

My favorites went on a tape labeled, "Sebastian's list".

It was meant for one of those special nights when you decided to go on a drive on the highway at 8O miles an hour, all the windows down, radio so loud it could damage your ears. One of those occasions.

It was probably something I'd never share.

After I had gotten situated, I rummaged through my closet for what to wear to the bonfire. It was sort of chilly but not cold enough for a big jacket. In the end, I settled on a navy hoodie, jeans, and my old beat up Air Force ones. I kept one of my mixtapes and some earbuds in my pocket, just in case.

I grabbed my phone, keys, and wallet and headed up the stairs to the front door.

"And where are you going?" Mom inquired.

"I'm uh. . . going to a bonfire at the park." I answered, hoping there wouldn't be any follow up questions.

"With who?" she asked, skeptically.