It’s such a chore.
With a groan that undeniably says, ‘I so can’t be bothered with this’, I follow both Samick’s command—and my stomach’s.
I drag myself over to the pantry, as though slower steps mean a higher likelihood that edible food will be in there, not things like teabags I have little use for, or stale crackers that need a lot of water to force down.
But I’m just so fucking tired that I can’t even be bothered to hold the torch anymore. My arm hurts. My legs hurt. My back, my feet, my shoulders—
Everything hurts.
I wrangle the strap off my wrist.
There’s a book left on the counter.
I scan the front page—and from it, I learn that at least one room in this old house was converted into an office for a psychologist.
Setting the torch down on the book, I angle the light to aim at the corner of the kitchen.
The pantry door is already hanging off its hinges, but not from a raid. It’s wear and tear. One of those cheap fake-wood pieces of furniture that come in flat packs.
Reminds me of my first houseshare. I swear, most of that house was filled with Ikea.
Bee would’ve had it the same way in our flat if I’d let her. But for months, weekend after weekend, I dragged her out thrifting in the waking hours between her club promoter shifts.
I hauled her along to every car boot sale and charity store and vintage shop in London.
It’s probably all gone now.
Not only the thrifting, the charity shops, the car boot sales—but our flat, too.
Our home.
Every vinyl I ever found, like treasure buried beneath rubbish, gone; our stained oak coffee table that had bite marks on the legs, and I always wondered if it was from a child or a dog; the fridge that sounded louder than a rocket ready to take off in our kitchen, but I couldn’t part with it, because it was retro.
That’s all gone now.
If it isn’t, it will be soon.
I’ll never step foot in that flat again.
It’s a weird thought. Like it isn’t real.
I’ll never set eyes on my bugs again, the collection of framed insects hung on the walls. I’ll never fall over my bed, running my hands over the records strewn about the floor, or cuddle up in my favourite armchair by the heater with a book and a tea or even a wine.
A weight settles in my chest.
Sadness.
Sorrow.
Grief.
It’s uncomfortable and I drag in a deep breath through my nostrils, as though that’ll steady the swell in me.
I loosen a ribboning breath, then tug open the pantry door.
The clinking of armour draws closer.
I look over my shoulder as Samick advances on me.
