Excess//Hibernation

'I don't know why you'd do that to yourself.'

I cringe at my dad's voice, rough from smoking too many cigarettes in his younger years – he had given them up when my sister was born but the damage was done. He was talking to me of course (it wasn't the first time he'd commented on my hair and it wouldn't be the last) but he didn't expect a response. That wasn't how things worked with him. I look up anyway. He's sitting in his armchair across the room, a half-finished mince pie in his hand – his third so far this afternoon – and a glass of wine sitting precariously on the arm rest beside him. He shakes his head when our eyes meet and I look away immediately.

I run a hand through my messy curls. Short, messy curls. I had it done just before the Christmas holidays. It had felt so good seeing my long dark hair fall to the ground around the hairdresser's chair. Putting my glasses back on and seeing my reflection clear for the first time since the first cut. Seeing a guy look back at me from the mirror. It didn't feel so good now.

My younger sister starts wailing. I have no idea why. Mum is on her feet in an instant and sitting in front of her within seconds. Offering her any number of her many, many new toys and, failing that, some of the many more chocolates and sweets surrounding her, in an attempt to satiate her. It isn't working. She keeps screaming anyway. I get up from my position on the floor, picking up some of the wrapping paper that covers the floor as I go – an excuse to leave more than anything.

I consider going into the kitchen to get away for a few moments peace but as I take a step in that direction the door is flung open filling the hallway with noise and heat. It's Christmas day. There are half a dozen caterers crowding into our kitchen – my parents' kitchen – to prepare dinner for our family. They'll cook more than enough for all of us and themselves as well but they won't be getting anything. As soon as the cooking and clean up are done they'll be moving on to other jobs or going home to their own families. I envy them. I wish I could leave too.

Instead I turn back and walk towards the stairs. I can hear my sister still wailing from the lounge. She had better shut up soon or dad will be pissed. He gets very invested in the holidays and if it isn't perfect he gets seriously mad and inevitably takes it out on anyone who gets in his way.

I trudge up to my room and shove the wrapping paper into my little pink bin. I let the door fall shut and a, relieved at the quiet it brings. I usually hate this room: it's too big, too much furniture, too much stuff I can't remember where I got and can't be bothered to care about. And too pink.

The colour itself doesn't really bother me. It's everything it stands for.

I remember when we first moved in here. My parents had spent tens of thousands doing up the place to get it ready for us. My dad had been so pleased.

I remember them showing me the bedroom for the first time. 'What do you think princess?' I didn't like it. Pink walls, pink sheets, pink curtains. 'Pretty in pink for our little girl.' I hated it.

'I love it.' I had told them.

I was never a tomboy. When I was a kid pink and dresses didn't bother me so much, or maybe I convinced myself they didn't because I couldn't get away from it. It wasn't the pink that bothered me so much; it was that nobody asked me. Just like nobody asked me about being a girl.

I don't hate the room because it's pink but I had started hating pink because of the room.

I sit down on the too soft bed. The hard mattress in my university room was almost impossible to sleep on when I'd first left my parents' house but now it's this bed that leaves me with insomnia. Or maybe that's the insomnia. There is shouting from somewhere downstairs. A male voice. I grab my headphones from my bedside table and scroll through my music for something to block out the sound. The voice gets louder. I pick a random Troye Sivan song and turn the volume up as high as it goes, ignoring the warning that comes up on the phone screen as it reaches dangerous levels. At least if I go deaf the world won't be so painfully loud.

I can still hear Him: I cover my ears with my hands and try to focus on the lyrics, mouthing the words between heavy breaths. I curl up on my side in bed and wish to be anywhere else.

I close my eyes tightly, hot tears build up behind my eyelids. My glasses press painfully into my face. I take my hand away from my ear for a moment to wrench them off my face and throw them somewhere across the room. Then I cover both ears again. Lying in bed, eyes shut tightly and music blasting at top volume I can almost pretend that I'm not here. Better yet that I'm not me.

But I can't. Lying on pink sheets, eyes hidden behind too long lashes, not able to really sing along to my favourite songs with my too-high voice. It's all wrong. The tears fall and the sheets grow damp beneath my cheek. My fingers clutch at my short curls as my palms press closer against my ears. It's all too much. I want to go to sleep and not wake up until the holidays are over. To stay right here, unconscious to the world until I can go back to university where things are at least marginally better – where He's not there. Or stay here forever. Just go to sleep and never wake up.

The songs ends. I take a shaky breath. I will have to go down soon or they will notice I'm gone. At least the shouting seems to have stopped. I lay there a moment and run a hand through my short hair. Then I start another song and close my eyes again. I can stay here for just a few minutes more.