"In California with my toes in the sand," he hummed, his body slowly swaying. I emerged from the corner I was hiding behind and smiled.
"Use the sleeves of my sweater," I sung. He turned around, a smirk playing on his lips. He approached me, intertw...
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The light seeped through my eyelids and stung my eyes. I brought up my hands from the thick duvet and rubbed the tired out of my eyes. Something in my stomach twisted as I took in my surroundings.
Everything was unfamiliar, setting in a layer of panic on me. I quickly shuffled out of the comforters and fell straight onto the light oak wood floors. This definitely isn't my room, my floors are carpeted.
The room was a light beige with golden accents. A basic four-walled area with a door leading to who knows where. Nightstands mirrored each other on either side of the queen-sized mattress and a sleek, white dresser stood at the end of the room.
I took a step in front of the mirror that hung above the dresser. My face was the same but I was clad in anything but an over-sized shirt and shorts. A black mid-thigh dress clung to my curves as my body sweat only made it tighter on me. My hair was tossed around as if a tornado had run through my scalp and my smudged makeup added to that.
Jackson's jacket hung over my shoulders. I turned around to see the familiar '6' but it was no where to be found. In place of the six, an eleven stood proudly in all of it's green glory. I furrowed my eyebrows and dragged it off of my body.
Seymour Isaiah was stitched under the number in black. My eyes widened in realization of what happened tonight. I quickly glanced at the bed and let out a sigh of relief as it was just as vacant as I left it.
I pulled down my dress from its upper-thigh position to make it more modest around the unfamiliar home. I snagged a brush that was conveniently placed on the dresser and yanked the knots out of my hair.
I pulled on Seymour's jacket and peered out the door for any sign of humanity. The hallway was empty but photo frames had occupied nearly every inch of the walls. A few house plants were scattered across the narrow floors.
"Seymour," I whispered. I knocked on one of the doors that had an 'S' hanging from it. Who opened up was anybody but Seymour.
"Hi," a little girl greeted me. She had a raven black mane of a serious case of bed-head. "If you don't mind me asking, who are you? I've never seen you around before." The girl looked about eight, give or take a few years. She was the half the door-frames length with a tiny build.
"I'm Sierra," her eyes lit up at my response.
"My name is Sierra, too!" she ecstatically pointed at the S hanging on her bedroom door. "Cool name."
"Touche," I grinned. "Do you know where Seymour is?"
Sierra (haha) nodded, "three doors down to your left and on the other side of the hall. You want me to take you?"
"It's alrig-" before I could finish, the little girl was dashing down the hall and began to bang on her brother's door.
"Seymour, open up! Your friend is waiting for you, Seywhore," I stifled my laughter from the nickname she had for her brother. When he wasn't to open, she muttered loud enough for me to hear, "tone-deaf dullard."
