"If you are not very careful, your possessions will possess you."

Marina & the Diamonds 'Oh No!'

EPOV

My apartment is full of stuff.

I don't even know where half of it came from.

At some point, I must have thought I needed or wanted all of it.

But now? It's just stuff. It takes up space and sits sadly. It looks at me and seems to say, "Why don't you love me anymore?"

I feel like I'm being emotionally blackmailed by my coffee table.

I remember the day I bought that coffee table.

It was a Saturday, and I was at Ikea. I didn't really need anything from Ikea, but I was there anyway. Throwing myself from one couch to another, trying out these bite sized fragments of perfect lives.

Who was I?

Contemporary hipster living in a loft complete with exposed brickwork in my bedroom/living room/kitchen.

Modern family in our small but perfectly formed new build, filled with space saving storage devices.

Or single professional in my sleek urban apartment.

I could never seem to fit myself into one of their stereotyped spaces, but I liked trying them on. Trying to mould myself to their preconceived notions of life.

It's a dangerous place Ikea. They seduce you with their bizarre Swedish names, and you forget that you have no idea what a Förhöja is, or what you could possibly use it for. All you know is that you need one.

It's clever and quirky and just the thing to complete your bedroom set. If that's even where it goes.

I saw that coffee table and thought maybe it would help me to define myself. In a bizarre moment of uncertainty and confusion I truly believed that if I bought that coffee table, I could make myself fit perfectly into one of their artificial spaces.

I would truly know what caste of the furniture system I belonged to, and I could start to really make my mark on my living environment. It would be the first step to reclaiming my life, to knowing where I belonged, to finally understanding who I was.

I was filled with hope. It seemed ridiculous that I hadn't realised before just how important this coffee table would actually be in the grand scheme of my life.

The coffee table was a lie.

It sat in the middle of my living room, just as incongruous as every other piece of furniture I'd ever bought. It looked intimidated by my flat screen, and snobbily unimpressed with my couch. It was disappointed in me.

Every time I had the gall to put something on it's surface it would whine at me. I could feel it's judgement and almost hear the words. "You said this would be the start of something great. I thought I was coming here to be cherished and admired, and you've left me to wallow with these outcasts and miscreants. I don't belong here."

Truthfully, I felt bad for the whiny little thing. He was right, he didn't belong here. Nothing did.

It wasn't just the coffee table, although it seemed to epitomise everything else in a single focal point that I couldn't hide in a cupboard.

It was the George Foreman grill in my kitchen. When did a normal grill become unacceptable, I wondered.

It was the throw pillows on my bed. They must have been bought by my mother, and I sometimes stood staring at them, trying to figure out their purpose in my life.

It was the floating storage unit that housed my DVD's and games. Why did it need to float? Surely that was just showing off. What was wrong with a book shelf?

All these things seemed to mock me. They took my money and gave me nothing in return. They sat by, in constant judgement of the way I was living my life.

They owned me.

I spent my hard earned cash (okay, maybe it's not that hard earned, but that's another conversation) on these disparate items, and I felt compelled to protect them.

It was an endless cycle.

Even after I'd paid for them, which should be the end of it, they wanted more. They wanted insurance, they wanted to feel secure in their position.

Should they be stolen or destroyed in a fire or – worst of all – dropped carelessly on the floor. They wanted reassurance that should the unexpected occur, that one of their brethren would step up to take their place. That everything was taken care of.

They owned me.

I was tied to this place, this life, by these things. I allowed them to exert their passive control over me with barely a struggle.

As I may have mentioned, I'm a worrier.

What if there was a fire? It's important that I not be homeless or without shoes or clothes; that's just basic survival – shelter is essential. From there it isn't too much of leap to throw your TV in with the basic necessities. Or your laptop. Or your blender.

Then where does it end?

Does it end?

Everyone wants to think they could be Tyler Durden.

But I know I couldn't be him.

I'm the narrator. I'm still waiting for my spiritual awakening. But if I have to create a terrorist alter ego to get there, I'll probably be waiting a while.

I'm just not that creative. Or that crazy. Well, I don't think so anyway. But then, how would I know?

Either way, the idea of living in a derelict house with no electricity, making soap, doesn't really appeal to me either.

I'd miss my iPhone too much.

Tyler would be unimpressed with my commitment.

I'm a walking contradiction. and I have no idea what I want.

"Picture perfect memories, scattered all around the floor.
Reaching for the phone, cause I can't fight it anymore."

Lady Antebellum - 'Need You Now'

BPOV

My life, my whole life, fits into a shoe box.

Everything that matters anyway.

Everything I'd try to save, if it came down to it.

That's one of the benefits of living out of a backpack. You learn to seriously prioritise what's important to you. Into the things that you actually need to live your life, and the things you cherish.

My shoe box is full of things I cherish.

I suppose it would look like junk to anyone else, but isn't that the beauty of it? That these trinkets and keepsakes could form the foundation of someone's existence, or the detritus of someone else's.

A miniature carved wolf that a friend gave to me – he tried to pretend he made it himself.

A weather beaten pebble - smoothed by the ocean - the exact colour of the sky at home.

A tiny jewellery box with a tiny ring inside - the first piece of jewellery my mother ever gave me.

I look at them all from time to time. To remind myself where I come from, and to remind myself of the people who made me who I am. Sometimes I'm wearing a cheap plastic tiara, small enough for a child, and sometimes I'm holding a perfectly flattened penny.

Most of the time it's enough. Except for the times when it isn't.

About six months ago I had a slight mishap. Like many of my mishaps it resulted in me wearing a backless paper gown and a charming plastic bracelet adorned with my name and date of birth.

I needed surgery. It was minor; I don't even think I would call it surgery. I think it lasted all of five minutes. They needed a next of kin. They wouldn't take no for an answer, and they started asking questions.

Apparently I'm estranged from my father. That's what they call it when you haven't spoken to him in two years. I remember thinking what an odd idea that was, how we had been defined that way by someone who didn't even know us. I didn't feel estranged. As far as the dictionary definition of the word goes; I wasn't 'displaying or evincing a feeling of alienation', but maybe he was.

I hadn't ever considered it that way before.

He knew I was safe. I might not call or visit, but he knew I was alive. I sent him postcards. Postcards from every place I'd been, from major cities to the smallest towns. No matter the place. You can always find a postcard. I told him little facts about my life, about the places I'd seen and the people I'd met.

But I never called.

At the bottom of my box there's another set of postcards. They're identical. The same towns, the same pictures, the same stories. Only the name is different.

They're for her.

It's these I look at most often. I like to spread them all around me. Like a map of memories. All I need is a floor, my box and my memories.

But memories are tricky things. They start to drift away from you before you even realise it. Like the exact colour of her hair, or the way she drank her tea, or the way she screamed and shouted the last time I saw her. One day they could all betray me. Then this box of treasures won't matter to anyone, not even me.

In the end they called Rose. I hadn't spoken to her in a couple of months either. But apparently when it's a friend that just means you've drifted apart. We weren't 'estranged'. How do they even decide?

She came.

By the time I was out of surgery, she was at my side with a deep frown etched on her forehead and her arms pressed tightly across her chest. She took me home with her too. So it's been six months, the longest I've stayed anywhere in years. And I'm only hours from home.

From him.

I should call. I should visit. Why can't I? Why does the phone seem so daunting, the dial tone so ominous? Because he's the only family I have left.

It seems to take an eternity for the ringing to start – then even longer for it to stop.

His voice is just as gruff as I remember it, all earth and flannel and strength.

"Hello?"

Mine is weak and distance and regret.

"Hello."

There's a sharp breath and a long sigh.

"Bells?"

"Hi Dad."

That's all there is. He won't ask me where I've been, why I ran away and why I stayed away so long.

Even if he wants to, he won't.

She'd be sobbing down the phone, begging me to come home. Telling me how scared and worried she'd been. Charlie does none of these things. But it doesn't mean he cares any less. He is my father, and he understands me in a way she never could.

In a way she never will.

A/N - This is probably a little random and not for everybody, but if you liked it or hated it, let me know. A big thanks to the people at PTB, who probably didn't know what to make of it either, but helped me out anyway.