Draw Me In

–|*|–

Twenty – Come As You Are

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*~ I'm diving off the deep end
You become my best friend
I wanna love you
But I don't know if I can ~*

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Despite how often my mum tells me not to knock, I still do.

I'm not even really sure why I do it, to be honest, because I still consider it to be home – to a degree, at least. It's sort of inevitable, right? I lived there for so many years, and what's more, I was happy there… so I suppose, in a non-legally-binding but emotional way… it'll always be mine.

But still.

I knock.

"It's open!" comes from the other side.

Smiling lightly, I turn the handle and step inside, registering the distinct smell of cleanliness as soon as I do. Maybe to some it'd be considered overpowering, but to me… well. It's just another part of being home.

I breathe in, deeply.

Quickly slipping off my shoes, I pad over the chilled wooden kitchen floor and into the living room. I startle-stop in the doorway, taking in the scene before me in a surprised-but-unsurprised manner.

"You get back from Venice, and this is the first thing you do?" I ask.

"Pffft," she replies, awful casual considering she's tiptoe on a chair, arms stretched to the limit and juggling a curtain pole. "This is number six on the list. I've already got two lots of washing done, swept the back garden, hoovered the floors, wiped the windows and done the sofas."

I blink at her acrobatic routine, bewildered. "There's been no one here. How could anything get dirty?"

She tuts, like I'm daft. "Dust accumulates, dear."

I roll my eyes.

"Now come and help me with this curtain pole, would you? I'm the short arse in this family, not you."

I huff, but start making my way over. "I'm taller than you by an inch, an inch."

"An inch can make all of the difference, hun."

I make a face at her back, not wanting to know if she was aware of the innuendo she just made.

Stepping up onto the chair on the other side, I grab the pole and steady it while she works the loops off of it. "So how was it?" I prompt, studying her newly tanned skin a tad enviously despite myself. I don't understand how the pasty tone of me came from someone as warm as her.

She sighs, letting the fabric slip to the floor. "Colourful, peaceful, delicious." She casts a pointed glance out of the window – dripping with rain – before turning back to me, eyebrows raised. "Warm."

I laugh. "Back to sunny old England, huh?"

She gives a little lamenting sigh. "A month went by too fast."

"Well, look on the bright side," I tease. "You can catch up on all your soaps now." I tap my chin in pretend-thought. "I bet combined across all three, at least five people have died since you left."

"You're hilarious," she replies flatly.

I grin, impish. "I know."

–|*|–

"So, so, so," she says brightly after we've affixed the curtain pole back into its little nook once more, and she's wandering off to put the curtains in the wash. "Tell me how your concert went."

My eyes widen at her retreating back in surprise. "How did you know about that?"

"Alice rang and told me," she calls back from the kitchen.

I sigh, plonking myself down onto the sofa. "Of course she did."

The sound of the kettle bubbling reaches my ears. "Tea?"

I think about it for less than a second. "Go on then."

When she comes back into the living room, she hands me my tea and then heads over to the fire, turning it up until it's on full. I raise a brow when she sinks next to me on the sofa. "Cold, mum?"

"I've been living in twenty plus degrees for the past four weeks, and I come home to barely above freezing. Yes, I'm cold."

I snort into my mug. "I think it's more than a bit above freezing."

She waves me off. "So? Your concert?" she prods.

The words are on the tip of my tongue, and then I glance up. Her eyes are bright green, sunny with warmth and . . . hope.

I swallow them back down.

"It was great," I force out, plastering a smile onto my lips. "We had a great time. It was really . . . great." Stop saying great!

But she bypasses my repetition, a genuine smile turning the corners of her mouth up. "Oh, I'm so glad!" she says, and her relief is palpable. "And you were alright with the crowd?"

I press my lips together. "Yep."

She lifts a hand from her mug and places it on mine, squeezing gently. "Remember when you were in secondary school? You were scared of your own shadow." She shakes her head. "But look at you now! Graduated from Uni, living way from home, going to concerts, owning your own shop." Her smile grows as she lists, giving my hand another squeeze. "I knew you'd grow out of it."

All I manage in reply is a quiet, strangled, "Yeah."

–|*|–

On my way home from mum's – walking because I'm only fifteen minutes away – I wrap my scarf around my neck and mouth and nose and stare down at my feet. It's cold, but it's my insides that are frozen.

You'll grow out of it – she'd been telling me that since school. 'It' was always this sort of vague, ill-defined concept that I never really had a definition for, only that 'it' was something that separated me from everyone else.

It never really took up residence in my brain until I was in college though, where I became privy to young adults rather than school kids. Suddenly, I was one, except that I didn't feel like it. They'd come in to class and chat about things I had no interest in; drinking, clubs, gigs, and the like. For the whole two years I was there I only ever made an acquaintance or two, because as soon as lessons ended, I was rushing out the door and to the bus stop. I never went anywhere but home, because I never wanted to be anywhere but there.

It was the only place I felt . . . safe. Not like I was being physically threatened by the outside just that I . . . wasn't comfortable being surrounded by so much of it.

And still, mum would say – "You'll grow out of it."

What? I'd wondered then, but never asked. What was 'it'?

When I moved out for Uni, mum was equal parts thrilled and sad. Sad, because she would miss me (even though the Uni was only half hour away), but thrilled because I was acting like I was supposed to . . . at least she thought so, anyway. So then I was doing it, I was growing out of it.

But not really then. And still not now.

Because yes, I had graduated from Uni, I was living away from home, I hadn't gone to concerts plural, but I had been to one, and yes, I owned my own shop.

But throughout all of that, I hadn't changed. I was still uncomfortable in situations in which I had no experience of before. People still unsettled me when there were too many around, and I still grew stupidly anxious over things other people wouldn't think twice about.

I hadn't grown out of anything, because I'd realised a while ago that her words were impossible.

I couldn't grow out of me.

–|*|–

The flat is empty when I walk through the front door. Kicking off my shoes, I drop my keys onto the counter and flop onto the couch with a sigh. I close my eyes for a second, abruptly snapping them open again as my weird dream from last night pulls at me.

Perplexity draws lines on my brow as I think of Alice and Rose's ghostly appearances, their entreaty that I was going the wrong way. Well, literally, I was going nowhere, so it had to be metaphorical. Or, you know, just a dream.

Then I think of TS's cameo appearance, and my cheeks flush crimson as his words reverberate through my head like a really annoying, but really catchy song. I really hate that in addition to my waking life, he's pushing himself into my dreams, too.

The worst part is that I'm not even being allowed denial in my resting hours. I can ignore all I want while I'm awake, but my mind forms a connection with my heart when I'm asleep and drags up everything.

I've never really felt wanted or needed – I have felt loved, but . . . I don't really know, there's a difference. I suppose I know my mum loves me in the way that I know I love her – I just do. She's never had to need or want me around because I've always been here. I don't know what it feels like to be needed or wanted, but apparently, at least subconsciously, I want to be wanted – want to be needed.

Even if I'm terrified of being both.

Groaning, I throw my hands over my face. And TS wants to be my friend. He must be insane.

I think about that for a minute.

Dropping my head over the back of the couch, I stare at my upside-down bedroom door through squinted eyes, something tight seizing my stomach. I had only been myself with him – I could never be anyone else, no matter how hard I tried – and despite that, despite me, he still wanted . . .

Maybe . . . maybe it wouldn't be so bad to have another Alice, another Rose – another someone, after all.

So before I can talk myself out of it, which I inevitably will if I hang about, I quickly pull myself up, trip-darting to my bedroom door as I get used to the blood rushing away from my head for a minute.

Despite me not having charged my phone for days, it still has the tiniest bar of battery. Stealing a breath, I zoom through, not even checking for typos before I press send.

Thank you.

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*~ I know something is broken
And I'm trying to fix it
Trying to repair it
Any way I can ~*

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A/N:

hoovering = vacuuming

college = last years of U.S. high school, I think (from the age of 16 to 18)

So . . . mixed bag this chapter, huh?

Apologies to those who weren't fond of the previous chapter. It may have seemed a bit out of place, but that was the point. Odd dreams – like Bella's – can happen without much direct preamble. Her's was the overwhelming realisation of everything that had been building up inside of her: her fear and loneliness, her contradictory desire to be wanted and to want to run. She can vent to Alice and Rose, but she doesn't really know how to deal with it by herself.

Anyways. Hope you enjoyed this one! It's my birthday tomorrow (the big 20 – officially no longer a teen, uh-oh), so reviews are greatly accepted as gifts. ;) xo

Thank you for reading!