I blot the excess water from my hair with another towel, then move to the sink to brush my teeth, rinse, and smooth a light cream over my face.
Back in my room, I sit at my vanity, pointedly avoiding the empty space where a mirror should be.
You took care of it.
The devil whispers, and I shake the thought away.
I apply a lip mask and work a light serum through the lengths of my hair before switching on the hairdryer.
By the time I’m done, I step into the walk in wardrobe and reach for a pair of soft grey sweatpants and an oversized hoodie.
A skeleton clutching a coffee cup is printed across the front,Mentally ill but totally chillscrawled along the back.
I pull it on, settle the fabric over me, and leave my bedroom, hoping I can keep myself busy enough so I don’t have to be in my head, as it’s not a pleasant space to be in.
Chapter 2
Octavia
I walk into the living room, which opens directly into the kitchen, forming one continuous space.
The sofa is a pale cream, draped with a thick throw in burgundy and gold, and three mismatched cushions rest along the back.
A coffee table sits before it, and the television faces the room from the opposite wall.
But my canvases have taken over entirely.
Along the walls, arranged in what I attempt to pass off as orderly stacks yet still managing to look utterly unruly, rest a mix of unfinished canvases, charcoal drafts, and pieces I’ve actually managed to complete.
I’ve even started painting straight onto the walls. Whoever ends up with this dorm after me will probably call it vandalism, claim I’ve ruined their space.
Then again, can art truly be called a ruin?
I grab the remote, flick on the TV, and scroll through the music channels until I settle on something.
I set the volume loud enough to melt the silence, though it’s really just to drown out the noise in my head.
I move into the kitchen and switch on the coffee machine, taking out bread, an avocado, smoked salmon, and eggs while it grumbles through its slow start up.
I set the eggs to boil and occupy myself with putting dishes back in place.
When I turn toward the coffee machine, the smell of smoke hits me.
My breath catches as I look back at the hob. The water is boiling over, slopping violently against the sides of the pot.
I rush forward to turn it off, but boiling water splashes over my palm as I grab for it. I hiss and jerk my hand back, knocking the handle as I do. More water spills, hits the flame, and flares.
I step back, manage to shut everything off, and lunge for the window, getting it open before the smoke alarm goes off.
I make my way back to my room, rummaging through the drawers until I find the burn cream. I smear it over my hand, already flushed an angry red.
I’ll live, but it still stings like hell.
Good.
You enjoy pain.
That same bloody voice taunts, and I push it aside. I’ve become rather good at doing that.
