▫Point of Possible Return▫ [Hannibal Lecter FF] ▫AU▫

Ch. 2

"It doesn't matter what I do,
I just can't seem to win,
But here I go,
Again."
-Story of My Life by Smash Mouth

The kitchen was finished, and the bathroom was starting to get painted. I decided after finishing two of the walls, that taking a small trip to the nearest coffee shop was better than breathing in fumes; it was bustling with people, inside and out, with chairs and seats outside as well as on the inside. The menu had several flavors, and the staff were pretty nice.

I found in seat in the corner of the shop, whipping out my sketch back and phone, sipping my coffee as I drew and listened to music. Hours passed, the finished product of my pencil; it was a small butterfly. I was happy with my work, giving a small smile, before drinking the rest of the beverage.

I glanced around the room to see the room almost full, and everyone smiling and laughing. The atmosphere felt happy, joyess, and overall good. It didn't mean that I was happy, though. Seeing everyone having a good time reminded me that I was alone. By myself. Out of the way, unseen and unheard. I wrapped my arms around myself, my mind drifting more towards the music than the room.

My apartment was silent, bare, and in need of furniture. I flipped through a furniture catelog, sighing as each item was something that I couldn't afford. It felt like the previous owner only wanted everything else, leaving the bed, dresser, night tables, and cabniets. I rubbed my eyes, holding back the now frustration that was building up.

As I flipped a page, the end of it ripped, yanking the price of one of the pieces of furniture right off; and it was one of my favorites, too... I was now loosing it. I groan as loud as humanly possible, placing a hand on my temple. "School starts in a week... This is not a good way to start it off." I murmur to myself.

At that moment, my phone rings. I pick up the device, seeing my uncle on my mother's side's name come up. I slide the answering bar and held it up to my ear. "Hey, Uncle Rob." I said this with the most gleeful of voices I could conjure up.

"Hey lil' Jay-Jay!" My uncle's voice gave off the impression that he was happy to hear my miserable tone. "How's my little psychiatrist?"

"As good as I'll ever be." I replied, my voice fairly low.

"That ain't an attitude of a winner!" My uncle exclaimed with enough humor that it would make Jim Carrey cry.

"There's a way that I might be losin' that battle... All I have is a bed. A bed! I can't buy anything, and I wasted forty bucks on a couple gallons of paint! The guy across from me has a couch and I pretty sure that he had some more stupid furniture in his room too." I was almost yelling at this point. I wasn't in the mood for anything at the moment. I just wanted to get furniture.

"Wow... How much money do you have?" Uncle Rob asked with caution.

"Twenty three bucks and thirty four cents." I answered with true honesty.

"Want me to send you some money for gas?"

"Nah. I need the exercise anyway..." The end of my sentence lingered.

There was a long pause before my uncle asked, "So what about this guy across the hall? I feel like you're not tellin' me any details."

"He moved in a couple days ago, and I've seen movers bring in a bunch of stuff." I leaned my elbow on my leg.

"You think he looks cute, don't you?" My uncle started snickering. I heard my Aunt Delilah say something about him tormenting me.

"His couch looks cute at the moment, 'cause I want it moved in here, though it doesn't match the walls." The sound of Uncle Rob's deep laughter filled the telephone line. "You think, I'm jokin', but I'm serious!" This wasn't a complete lie; the couch looked like it was high-end leather. Brown leather at that. So in a way, it would match the walls, but I was holding out for a white one to magically appear.

"You should tell her that she needs to meet this guy; she needs friends." I heard my aunt yell at my uncle. This was the truth. I never was really good with making friends, and going out in the city alone seemed frightening. My oldest brother called me a sociopath when I sat in the empty choir room at lunch in high school.

Uncle Rob and I said our goodbyes as I hung up the phone. I laid the phone by my side and looked at the catalog; it was mocking me with its high prices and fancy furniture in different colors. I glared at the magazine's enticing cover, then rolled it into a cylinder before throwing it at a wall. I shouldn't be wasting my time getting angry over nothing.