5
CLAIRE
Falling asleep in a different time zone, let alone a new place, is not a simple task. It should be, given the exhausting day I’ve had and the dose of sleep-aid I took. But, instead of nodding off, I toss and turn, my mind flitting in a million different directions.
I don’t settle on one specific topic very long before my brain throws me to the next. I think of my dad, and what it must be like for him to uproot everything and move out of the country. I can relate, obviously, but only to an extent. I don’t focus on my mom much. I’ve spent a lot of my childhood wracking my brain on how this woman operates and the reasoning for her abandoning me and Dad, but I can never quite make sense of it.
I think of Rosie and my friends back home, starting at Turner University next week without me. I shudder at the memory of Griffin, and the fading parting gift he left on my arms. Each mile between us continues to build the courage I need to finally rid him from my story. I even ponder about Greta, my guardian angel Uber driver, and what her life here must be like.
No matter where my imagination takes me, I keep creeping back to the guy from my building. I don’t know why it bothers me so badly that he was such a dick. I think part of me had hoped asshole guys were going to be a thing of my past, but apparently, I’m a magnet for them.
I roll to the edge of my bed and bring my legs down to rest my feet gently on the floor. I slide my feet into my cozy slippers and grab a sweater from my suitcase.
Not having received my boxes from back home, I’m forced to resort to a blank notebook instead of losing myself in fiction.
I quietly make my way out of my mom’s place and travel down the hall. The stairs don’t even creak under the weight of my body. I take residency in the corner of the empty courtyard at a small table. My spot is nearly hidden but still gives me enough light to see the pages awaiting my pen.
For being in a busy-ish area, there isn’t much sound that travels into the complex. It’s more of a muted chaos than anything else; it’s just enough to know there’s stuff going on outside of here, but not overpowering to where I can’t think. Although, at times, I wish there was something to drown out my own thoughts.
I stay there for a little while, doodling and writing lines of poetry that pop up. I don't reflect on what comes out, I just let it happen. I give my soul free rein to do what it pleases without dissecting the meaning behind it.
I’m grateful for this tiny sanctuary in this hectic world.
I wasn’t quite sure what to expect when I found out I’d be living in a building like this, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised. I halfway expected it to be busy and loud, with people coming to and from at all hours, but overall, it’s fairly laid-back. Aside from the asshole who knocked me down, I haven’t drawn the attention of anyone else living here. I’ve noticed the sound of the occasional door shutting, but that’s pretty much it. People don’t seem to frequent the courtyard other than to walk through to get to their units, and for that, I’m thankful.
That means this will be a great spot for studying, and reading, whenever my packages arrive from home.
An electronic clicking steals my train of thought, and my attention shifts to the gate near the front.
A shadowy figure appears from behind it and slowly comes forward.
At first glance, I assume the person is drunk, especially when I notice them clutching their side like they might hurl.
But when I hear the person hiss in pain, and the light finally illuminates them to show their blood-caked cheek, I realize he's not intoxicated, he's injured.
My heart pounds as I watch the guy who ran into me earlier stumble his way closer to the stairs.
I don’t dare move. From where I’m sitting, he must not know that I’m here, and I’d rather keep it that way.
I hold my breath when he’s only a few feet away.
He drags himself up the stairs, letting out a faint groan with each labored step.
Whatever hurt his side must have broken a rib.
Or more likewho,not what.
The guy gets to his door, and I continue to watch. I shouldn’t stare—it’s creepy—but I can’t help but wonder if he’s going to make it in.
He leans against the doorframe and fumbles in his pocket.
A second passes where I think he’s not going to find his key, but he does.
He disappears into his house and I’m left alone, my thoughts wilder than they were when I came out here.
* * *
Ispend most of my weekend in and out of bed. My entire Saturday was filled with Chinese takeout and binge-watching Netflix. Friday, the day of my arrival, had been mentally draining enough that I quarantined myself to get a little R&R. I’m not sure how well it worked, considering my mind hasn’t really slowed down much at all.