Chapter 4

Dylan turned his key and opened the door. He tapped his shoe on the carpet as he slipped out his feet from his sneakers, right foot first, left foot second. The wooden floor creaked when he made his way to the dining room table, dropping off his bag, then marched to the bathroom. The creaking had persisted for some time, since the bathroom was the farthest room from the entrance—or maybe it was the bedroom, since that room was on the other side of the hallway directly in front of the bathroom situated at equal distance from the front door: it becomes difficult to tell which room was actually farther.

The shameful architects who designed this house were probably drunk when designing this house. In fact, they were very drunk. The kitchen was the first place one steps into after entering and that would be completely fine if it wasn’t for the large rectangular dining table that blocked more than half of the space. To the detriment of the people living in the house, the architects designed the table to be fastened to the floor, so there was no question about moving or removing it without spending an excessive amount of effort, time and money—though a certain idiom might say that the two last ones are the same thing.

Now why did Dylan’s parents buy this house? The first reason would be because it was cheap and had everything needed for a sustainable life. The second reason, in order for Dylan to ever meet Tiffany and continue this story, would be the unfortunate events buying this specific house would lead up to—however saying that might defy some fourth wall breaking ground rules if any.

Once one progressed passed the large table, they’d now be setting foot into the living-room. The living-room, to the amazement of everyone excluding the architects, was fine. Next to the left far corner of the living-room was a small desk that Dylan—nor anyone—had ever used hitherto except maybe a potted plant or a lonely half sharpened pencil. Next to the opposite end of the first left corner was a right corner. Surprisingly enough, this corner greatly differed from the other because it wasn’t a corner at all. As matter of fact, it was actually a small door sized hallway that led elsewhere, but most importantly the bathroom.

Dylan turned on the faucet, letting the cold water trickle down his left arm.

“Ow…”

The dried-up scabs loosened up. Dylan pressed the wounds and rubbed them with his finger to clean the excess blood off. Once that was done, he did the same thing to the other arm with a little more difficulty: his left hand lacked dexterity. He closed the faucet and wiped off water from the counter. He searched through the bathroom cabinet for a particular bottle, one that wasn’t expired nor potentially filled with chemicals he could not pronounce. The date on the one he held hasn’t passed yet. Hydrogen peroxide. He said it with ease. A nod of satisfaction, he twisted the bottle open then poured some of the liquid on a clean towel. The towel was now drenched with disinfectant poison. He set the bottle down and set the towel on his arm despite his unwillingness to do so. After the disinfection, Dylan wrapped his arms with bandages. Finally, it was done.

Dylan gently sat down on the toilet seat. It was cold—as all seats should be.

Awkward pause. Awkward silence. Water sloshed as a loud flush echoed within the room.

Dylan washed his hands thoroughly.

His eyes were fixated at a blue shaded semitransparent cup. The cup didn’t reciprocate his gaze, but merely stayed as is. Inside was nothing else but a toothbrush. What he did afterwards was totally expected. He filled the cup with cold water, squeezed some paste out of an aluminium tube and brushed his teeth. The mirror reflected a somewhat unpleasant visage, showing its seemingly perfect set of teeth with foam coming out of both sides of its lips. Dylan hesitated to spit. Dylan thought about spitting. Dylan spat.

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Once again, water splashed down cleaning everything up. He set everything aside and left; the bathroom door shut.

Through the white clouds seeped glimmers of light, filling the earth with new hope and energy. The sun was alive and kicking: the breezes lifted the flowers up, enlivened the grass and warmed the rooftops. Perhaps it even snugged a blanket of light over a haphazardly collapsed body on the streets. Who knows? Not Dylan of course, since he was still inside the house doing whatever he was doing.

Empty cereal boxes flung all over the kitchen while Dylan threw them around. He shook each box in attempt to find one that wasn’t empty. He was unsuccessful. The hollow reverberance he heard one after the other had become quite annoying. Finding breakfast was difficult. He never knew finding breakfast could be oh so difficult. Looking at the number of empty boxes that lay on the floor compared to the number of nonempty boxes gave a pitiful ratio of zero. Nothing close to breakfast was in the fridge either. Maybe he should start buying groceries. He had thought about starting to do the groceries by himself but never had the right mindset to actually do it. His parents were very unreliable when it came to these kind of things, but, alas, there was always enough food to keep Dylan from succumbing to his greater fate of being dead.

What can I eat, he thought, I mean I can go eat at Tiffany’s, but then again… it’s gonna be awkward. Oh well.

He made up his mind. He was going to eat at Tiffany’s house even if he rejected her previous offer. After getting out of his trance, he uncrossed his legs and lifted himself up. Unfortunately, one step was all it took for him to find himself back onto the squeaky planks. He stepped on an innocent cardboard box with the drawing of a friendly tiger, crumpling its smile into an unforgiving jagged mouth that emanated an aura of vengeance and anger. With that said, Dylan somehow slipped. In a bid to keep his balance, he swung his arm to the side hitting the edge of the table. Instead, it worsened the situation by making him plummet to the ground with his back bones facing exactly where they shouldn’t have been facing, and that’s without mentioning his wounded arms as well as his newly wounded palm. He lay in utter defeat, utterly given up on life. What is happening to my life…

He rolled to the side, groaned, got back up, and rubbed his forehead a little. His view inclined: he cracked his neck with a quick circular motion of the head. Ugh. Time to go.

Plodding across the hall once more, he eyed the right wall in all its inexistent virtue because he lacked things to look at. Dylan slipped into his bedroom and put his hand aimlessly onto the wall, trying to feel the protruding light switch. The thick blinds hid the place from the bright outside world. The little light that managed to seep through gave a faint orange glow—a sad one at best. Needless to say, he rarely opened the blinds. The blinds hadn’t been open for so long, it wouldn’t be surprising if dust bunnies started to hop all over the greyish layer of the window frame, like children playing in snow. The artificial luminescence overpowered the orange glows, leaving the clothy curtains opaque and colourless.

Onto the wardrobe. It was slick, made of mahogany-like wood, but cheapishly grainy. He slid the door open and hovered his hand over the plethora of textile, hesitant of what to wear. Anything that can hide the bandages, he thought. His fingers had been hanging for a while now, still indecisive. How about this? He unhooked a small jacket—it looked more like a suit than anything but whatever. He tried it on. It was weirdly too big and too small, at the same time; the sleeve vents were too tight and the armscyes were lacerating his armpits, yet the sleeves were baggy enough to fit an arm three times the size of his own. He looked like a mere child wearing a grownup’s attire. He looked at the mirror. Nope. He shoved the thing back without even attempting to put it in the same way he took it out. He lifted another one out, this one had a rather simplistic style: it was mostly black, some white for the small details of the printed brand. Have I worn this before? When did I buy this? Regardless of the answer, he slipped into his new attire. He faced the mirror once more. For some reason it reminded him of how Tiffany dressed. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how bad and weird—somehow in a good way—her fashion sense was, not that his was any better. Dylan raised an eyebrow, visible confusion in his eyes as he had no idea why he was thinking of that. He grabbed a new pair of pants too to match his upper body. His stomach growled. Yes, I get it. I should go.

Dylan hurried through the house. The stiffness of his movements didn’t seem to affect his speed whatsoever. He must’ve been very hungry. He grabbed his bag and put his shoes on. Before putting on his second shoe, he remembered something. He dropped the shoe and turned back. He hopped across the kitchen floor, using the table for support, and grasped his wallet from the counter. This time he really left.

He locked the door with the twist of a key and started walking to his long-awaited destination.