What Matters

Chapter Five: Miss Placed Foot

My back rested against the wooden door, pinching my skin as I slid down to the cold marble floor. My bag tumbled to the floor, empting its content in a pool around me, resting at my feet.

My palms punched into my eyes, blocking out the tears begging to leak down my cheeks.

I wouldn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. Not now.

My mouth pinched together, bitterness leaking out of me. My teeth gritted together, grinding as they ran over each other, battling with each other’s strength.

Balled up in tight fists, my hands shook violently as they covered my eyes, a cold quiver running through them.

I screamed out in frustration, pulling my head tucked between my elbows as I rocked slowly. I didn’t stop.

My screams exploded round the room, echoing of the caving walls. My voice stuck hose in my sore throat. The air scraping across my dry gums, my breath coming out in small gasps. I couldn’t speak, not that I had anyone to speak to.

The house was empty, as hollow as a Ping-Pong ball. Not a sound rumbled from the belly of the house, its echoing silence deafening me.

A loud slam on the door jolted me from my balled up position, bring me back to reality as I jumped faster than light to my wobbling feet. The door rattled on its hinges.

My pulse picked up as I stumbled back, kicking my bag and its spilt content under the hall table.

Running to the under stairs cupboard, I pulled out the baseball bat, clamping it tight between my shacking hands. I edged towards the front door, my heart picking up in my chest. It thumped louder than a drum, its music running through my veins as my pulse increased in my neck.

I could see a figure through the clouded glass, watching as their fist slapped against the glass, rattling it. Its sound was muffled by the sound of rain pouring outside, rain I hadn’t notice before.

No one had visited me since I left the hospital. I had begged everyone to give me my space, saying it was what I needed to heal.

The truth is, I didn’t need space, I needed closure, I needed someone to love me. I needed the eternal type of love. The only fault was that the window was closed, the doors locked, I was stuck, and had nothing left for me to life for.

That was why, looking at the door with wide eyes, I felt my heart jolt with every step I tumble.

Over the last week I had gotten used to the idea of being alone, I welcomed it. It was easier then answering the hundreds of questions and watching the sympathetic stares.

To be honest, I didn’t want anyone bringing round flowers which would just remind me of the funeral I never attended, or lasagne which would be left on the side, covered in mould, rotting away like my parents. Nothing.

Looking at the figure behind the door, I suddenly felt more alone than before, if that was possible. I wasn’t safe here, not on my own. The thought alone would consume me.

Home was supposed to be safe, where the heart is. Mine wasn’t. It wasn’t a home anymore.

With this I realised that it wasn’t the house itself that made it a home, it was the people inside of it, the people who drowned you in love no matter who you were. That was my home, a home I would never see again. Gone.

The person thumped at the door louder, the glass rattling in its frame. The figure jumped from foot to foot, appearing nervous as their head whipped from side to side.

Grabbing onto the lock, I unclicked it silently, sliding my hand down the wood and onto the bronze handle.

Sucking in a shaking breath, I turned the handle, opening the door with the bat firmly in my hand.