7 Things About the Boy Next Door

Chapter 23

"The song has ended but the melody lingers on." -Irving Berlin

~Harmony~

That night when I arrive home late after celebration ice cream at Bob's Sprinkles & Stuff, I rapidly feel the effects of the blazing sun and lively stadium. All my energy suddenly drains from my body like ringing a sponge of water - and I'm of course the stupid sponge. 

Shuffling over the dried wood of my porch, I wave a final time over my shoulder to Jas and Dylan as my front door closes behind me with a soft click. Sighing in bliss, I lean against the glossy paint, hands spread out either side of me by my hips against the cool door as I grin idiotically into the darkness of the hallway.

Expelling a large breath of air and shaking my head with a chuckle to the floor itself, I push off on weak arms and stumble up the stairs on sore, very tired feet. Straining my droopy eyes through the darkness, curiously and with a slight undertone of worry, I peer through mum's cracked door.

Twisting my head through the small gap, I see half her drooping face illuminated by the pregnant moon bleeding through the window at the far end of the room. I smile warmly at her peaceful form and silently whispering a good night to her, gently close the door soundlessly to join her in unconsciousness.  

My thoroughly battered door is already swung wide open so walking in is not the issue, closing the door is. I cringe as I tentatively close it with a shrilling squeak, the sound seeming loud enough to wake the most deceased of the dead.

Deciding it's best to treat it like a band aid, I slam the door closed and hold my breath as it rattles on the hinges, praying I didn't wake my mother. A few motionless moments pass where the only thing I can hear is the pounding of my heart and the crinkling of covers as she shifts around in her sleep. Other than that, nothing; beautiful silence.

Stepping away from the troublesome door, I tear off my clothes with purposeful moves. When all garments are safely removed from my body, I dive head first into a pair of silky pyjama shorts and matching top. This is one of the best parts of the day, when you take off the stiff denim and scratchy labelled tops to exchange it for soft, cuddly pyjamas where you can finally breathe.

Too tired to fold and store away my used clothing, I kick it into a ball at the bottom of my bed and slither over to the light switch by the door. 

With my hand ready on the switch, I flick my gaze over the cold, untouched single bed in the far corner, preserved as it was from the day it's owner left. 

My throat constricts and I seal my eyes closed as to block out any memories, but to no avail. It turns out simply letting your lids drop doesn't stop a flood of beautifully painful memories to swamp your mind like the freaking plague.

Pillow fights; pillows shedding their contents in a white blur, feathers dancing to an unheard tune and chiming giggles piercing through the house...

Now my eyes have started, I can't stop them and they swing over to her 'bookshelf of memories' as Mel used to refer to it as; the one I cleared in my blinding red rage. They focus intently on a picture of us when we were fourteen at the lake house mum rented out for the weekend. Mum got a new camera that week and was snapping shots of anything that moved. Scratch that, just anything.  

But in this picture, it was just after mum got us an ice cream cone each and it got a little... messy. 

Cold cream splattering against our cheeks in an array of pink, brown and white; napoleon, our favourite. Melting as they splash on our faces, tracks of ice cream seep down our foreheads and mingles between our lips as the summer sun beats down, sapphire blue lake water rippling in the background and smiles cracking our faces in two.