She opened her puffed eyes and sat up in bed. The washed out grey duvet folded around her. There were puddles on the pillows and her book lay open on the carpet. She was a chapter away from the end. Falling half out of bed, she reached for the book. Her thumb held it open to the page she had been at the night before. It was spotted with wrinkles. Even with the blinds closed, there was enough light to let the words form. She settled back against the pillow and ventured on.
The bedroom died around her. And she jumped head first, down the rabbit hole. If time let her, she would have tea with the Mad Hatter for hours.
A door slammed. And the colours crumbled around her.
“Babe?”
She threw the book under the covers, leaving it to mould, and tripped out of bed. It was cooler without the sheets beneath her. She pulled her t-shirt loose and tugged at her boy-leg briefs to cover her thighs. All the while, tumbling down the stairs. Her feet burned bare against the iced tiles. She was oblivious. Even to her hairs, nipples, and goosebumps standing on edge, begging for warmth in cuddles.
She followed the waft of cologne as he wandered around the lounge opening the curtains. The sun was heatless and flooded the room with a fake yellow hue.
“Your ‘rents aren’t home till Sunday. Right?”
She nodded and curled her leg around his. He laughed confidently, throwing her onto the couch and kissed her neck till she dug her nails into his back.
They had been painted Heartbreaker peach the night before.
She was crouched on the couch, brushing her nails with the polish. Three strokes per nail. Her parents were hurling their things out the front door and herding them into the boot of the hatchback. Her mother sprinkled the usual throughout the room before she left; “be good”, “behave yourself”, “feed the cat”, “I’ve put some money in your account”, “no parties”, and a slopped kiss on the forehead. As the car disappeared down the driveway, she continued onto her toes.
Once all twenty matched, she flicked off the TV and slunk into her bedroom. Her mum had made the bed before leaving, but as she snatched her book from the bedside table, she flung the covers from their tight places. The clean edges were picking up dust from the carpet, like shirt cuffs browning on the ends. She sipped her herbal tea and unfolded the corner of the page, straightening the crease with her ironing fingers.
Succumbing to the letters that waltzed over the pages was like giving into sleep after weeks of insomnia. She licked the letters clean from the paper, finishing many chapters of the book.
She laughed as her favourite characters stumbled into jokes and paired with their unrequited lovers. She cried when they died.
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