The Hollow House

Chapter 2: the woods

          It is 5:20 in the morning, and my eyes feel like they've been burnt open with acid. Its my own fault; back in London I spent most of my nights awake partying, and as much of my day as I could get away with dozing off in classes. Maybe even I wouldn't have been awake at 5:20, I'll admit, but I'd rather make up excuses than admit my nervousness, even to myself. Here, of course, I haven't been to a single party. I like this fresh start, this clean opportunity. My windows are already propped open to let in the fresh air, and I could easily imagine myself turning into an early bird. If I start now, I could actually still end up with a well-adjusted sleep schedule, rather than becoming a permanent hypochondriac. I balance my laptop precariously on my knees, praying the bright light will kickstart my brain, and watch as the Instagram app pops up on my home screen. I haven't been on Instagram for months, ever since I deleted my account, but i downloaded it on a whim sometime around midnight before slipping back into my half-dreams. Unwilling, photos from my old account flash through my head like a PowerPoint presentation, the boys and clothes and raucous videos, and my stomach sinks.
     I always hated the people in those photographs. Vacuous, stupid, washing away their futures with every swig of strawberry vodka. The people here are probably small-town and simple, gossipy and traditional and fundamentally kind. I type in a username, Cathercat, a pre-emptive homage to Sab, and fill in my details. This new account is fresh and sweet, and I already know what sort of things I'll post. Cat photos, nature walks, the occasional selfie, outfits of the day in soft, pastel colours. Those things will be real, or real enough, and maybe they'll give me the incentive to stick with the charade; a neat little model for me to keep in my pocket. The outfit I'm wearing today is already laid out: a soft jumper and collared white shirt, black skinny jeans, flat black converse. It's a little more feminine than what I'd like, but less feminine than what I'm used to, and I want to make a good impression. I get changed, creeping across the bedroom floor to not wake dad. He got home late enough to be tired, too tired to remember to close his door, an I can see the shape of his body tucked into a ball on the bed, like he's protecting himself. He needs all the sleep he can get.
     Once I'm dressed, and my hair is brushed, I snap a quick selfie for my profile, with my tongue poking out and my eyes crossed. After that, I find the photo of Sab that I took last night, stretching awkwardly out on my window seat, face quizzical, and upload that too. So exited for my first day!! I type, hovering over the save button. Is it too perky? Too fake? Should it be a little more self deprecating? I press back and start again. Sab settling in at his new home. Cute, dumb, annoying, take your pick. There's no one to follow, yet, but my mind glances back to the girl from yesterday. She could be a friend, I think, if I didn't screw it up too badly. Stepping out into the hallway, Sab bolts into the light and presses himself up against my ankles, purring like a motor engine. I laugh, and nudge him gently away, lifting up my leg to sweep away any loose hairs. The box of cat food was shoved into the kitchen, so I edge my way down the creaking stairs until I find it. Five minutes later, Sab trots away like the traitor he is and, seeing as it's too late to get to sleep now, I sweep my fingers through the cutlery box until my fingers catch against a set of keys.
     On the doorstep, the wood is frosted and damp under my bare feet, and I'm already shivering. The sky is turning indigo, but in the horizon I can still see the glint of stars; Venus, maybe, and the faint trace of aeroplane trails. Lights are starting to flicker on, the buzzing logos of morning coffee shops, and a lone jogger in leggings and a scarlet letterman jacket bounces past my house. I gasp a little too loudly when I see her, hoping she'll look over and I can introduce myself, but as she passes by I can see the light glinting off her headphones. For a moment, I catch sight of a face behind the headphones, calm and determined with her eyes screwed shut in effort, but seconds later she passes the hedge and vanishes. It's almost admirable, that determination. Realistically, she's probably just a bone-head jock, but she's a bone head jock the same age as I am, and I can't afford to be picky.

Huffing, I slump down onto the veranda and kick my legs out onto the cool grass. There are footsteps in the house behind me, too light for dad, and I edge a little to the side, a silent invitation. Mum catches sight of the still-open door, and the wood creaks under her feet as she comes up behind me. I turn my head, forcing a smile.
     "Morning," I whisper, pushing a hand through my hair. "Did I wake you up?"
     She crouches down, hesitant. "I was already awake," she frowns, and the light's too dim to for me to see if she's lying. Even with her face half in shadow, it's still obvious how different we look. Her hair is dark and neat, pinned up in a bun, and I'm towering over her even while we're sitting down. If I looked like anyone, it would definitely be my dad; we have the same dark blonde ringlets, cool grey eyes. He's darker than me; his mum was Italian, and his face is softer, like whoever he's looking at, he's thinking good thoughts. Mum said that's why people like him, even though he's a teacher, even though he's quiet like me. She told me once it was like we'd been sculpted from the same mold, and someone had washed the colour from me at birth, and even though she took it back straight afterwords, it was accurate enough to stick in my thoughts. She picks up on my silence now, and her face turns pensive.
"Nervous?" she asks. I look at her, and for one second I'm terrified every thought in my head is visible on my face. I remember the old school, in London. I remember the trial, and the boys in the crowd, and the boys on the stand, and I remember the way mum used to look at me, like every emotion she had was in technicolour, and how, if she'd asked me that a year ago, her face would have been worried, or sad, or anything other than that tired, faded thoughtfulness. I squeeze my eyes shut, one hard long blink, and my face clears again. Nothing is visible on the outside, and given a few weeks here, any feelings on the inside will have been pushed away too.
     I look at her, and shake my head. "Never."
     There's no guilt there for lying.