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Her room was still that same shade of pink that her mother had chosen the day she and Bobby were told the gender of their bundle of joy. Danielle's sienna eyes scanned the immaculately clean room. Her bookshelf still resided in the corner of her room, her work desk placed against the wall beside it. Across from her was her wide window, her white curtains still decorated by the pink flowers she had painted onto them when she was young. Memories began to come back to her.
She crossed the room and pulled back the curtains. The fabric was cool against her fingertips. She sucked in a breath as she lifted the window up, a cloud of dust spilling into her room from the cracked wooden pane. She fought the urge to cough as her hand waved to clear the air, her eyes locked on the scratched letters within the broken wood. D.S. Tears began to spring to her eyes as she peered down at the sentiment that was made to inflict happiness and spark joyful memories for when she had her own children and she inherited the house. Instead, those simple initials that would reside with her forever sparked agony. It reminded her of those sleepless nights, crying in her room and praying to God, asking him why she was going through this; what had she done to deserve this?
She tossed her duffle bag onto her queen sized bed, ignoring the way the springs squealed beneath the weight. The bed was dressed in a deep red duvet with gold lining, the pillows in gold pillow cases. She remembered being obsessed with medieval themes and saved up money for months to buy a whole set of bedding that would make her feel like she was a queen in the Revolutionary period. She wanted to feel strong; maybe even a little powerful. A smile cracked across the adult's face as she ran the pads of her fingers over the cool fabric. She missed her old life. The way it was before her mother turned on her. She released a sigh, her lips pursed as she turned back to her open door. She needed to get back.
With a pout on her lips, she sauntered back toward the doorway. The white paint that coated her door was chipping, exposing the squiggly, red handwriting beneath. She grazed her fingertips over the fragments with a small chuckle. "Its good to be home, I suppose," she whispered. She retracted her hand and gave her room one more glance before she left for the stairs.
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