I am currently in my parents house curled up in my little sister's old room which is very pink and pretty cosy. There are wardrobes in here, that I remember being frightened of when I was younger, and I can also see the faint outline of the Thomas the Tank engine mural underneath the pink wallpaper.
It has been a year since I spent the night in this house and I find it strange to think about the fact that I used to live here. It's been 3 years since I moved out. Not much has changed since. They got a new fridge. It's nice. I have a thing for fridges. My darling cat has been replaced with an asshole dog. My older brother and sister eventually moved out, and my younger brother and sister moved rooms. I don't have my room here anymore, but I don't really mind.
They recently painted my old room (which is now my little sister's room). I went up to look at it tonight. It is a strange shade of olive green, a very unoffensive, insipid, yet relaxing kind of colour. A fry cry from the abominable shade of orange they painted it while I inhabited it. It is very tidy, no clothes on the floor, and not much crap around the place, as my little sister is not a hoarder like myself. I lay down on the bed, which was the only thing I missed when I moved out, and tried to remember what it was like to live there.
I spent most of my time in that room when I lived here, lying on that bed with my laptop, Jellybean. I remember smoking out the window, pretending to study, fighting with my brother about not turning the landing light off, taking chunks out of the doors and walls from throwing stuff at each other. I remember Laila and Chris being here all the time.
I went down to the kitchen just there and got a snack, choosing from the legion of delicious Marks and Spencer's food in the fridge, and watched a bit of my sister's wedding DVD, which is the cheesiest thing I have ever seen. It's all slow motion and cringeworthy music and whatnot. The dog wouldn't fucking leave me alone, I don't understand how he doesn't sense the insane amount of hatred I feel toward him, or maybe he does and just likes to mess with my head in some fucked up doggy way.
There is a Jacqueline Wilson book beside me that I may just have to read. She was my favourite author as a kid, and I had all of her books. My dad took me out of school one day so that I could go to a reading/signing she was doing in Easons. I was very sad when I got too old for her books. I didn't really have any friends when I was younger, so I read an awful lot of books. Or maybe that was why I didn't have friends.
I remember the tragedy of growing out of childrens books, or young adult books. Whatever. I didn't know what to read. I read some of my mum and dads books, but they were trash. Total trash. I didn't know what kind of books I wanted to read, what authors I might like or how to find out, so I eventually just stopped reading, and began my long term relationship with the internet. I did find some authors that I like in the last couple years but I no longer have the time or the concentration.
Same goes for this.