Through the Light of the Bottle
Through the Doors of Home
“Oh thank the Lord or whatever the hell is up there,” my roommate comes sauntering through the kitchen doorway as I throw open the door to my flat in the SoHo.
“Hey Holly,” a faint smile forces its way on to my face and I squint my eyes to hopefully hide the red shots that poured tears not ten minutes earlier.
“Jeez, took you long enough. I can't function without your obsessive compulsive self doing everything for me. I mean seriously, I’m starving,” she sticks her fork in a carton of Chinese food.
“Um, Holl, isn’t that from before I left…” I peek into the container from over her shoulder.
“Ew, this tastes nothing like chicken,” she makes a disgusted face, throwing the carton onto the coffee table.
“Probably because it says shrimp on the side,” I laugh, readjusting my bag on my shoulder and turning to walk towards the bedroom.
“Touché,” she laughs, following me through the door and plopping down on my bed, hands folded in her lap. She looks at me expectantly, eyebrows raised as she watches me start to unpack my clothes.
“So, how was My Chem?”
“Assholes.”
“Now Kate, seriously, stop gushing,” she laughs, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Fine, it was…” my throat closes up slightly, and I feel a hard pressure on my chest, forbidding me from continuing with my original response. I instead grab a crumpled up sweater from my suitcase, turning around quickly, my hands flying and shaking as I will myself to fold it perfectly.
“Kate…?” I hear my bed springs squeak as Holly stands up. Her soft footsteps near me and soon vibrant green eyes are blocking my view of my intensely interesting shelves of sweaters.
“What happened?” She grabs the sweater from my hands, folding it with ease and precision before setting it on the nearest shelf.
“I don’t want to fucking talk about it,” my voice is hard and cold, plowing its way into Holly’s small stature.
She bites her lip briefly before nodding her head, “All right.”
“Holly, I-“ I feel my walls breaking down, the pressure on my lungs increases and the tears threaten to push their way to the front of my gray eyes.
“No, don’t talk unless you want to,” she shakes her head, her red curls flying every direction, “Just trying to help out.”
And with that, she turns around, walking out the door quickly.
I scream, grabbing the nearest article of clothing and hurling it towards the wall. My breath comes out in short, ragged intervals, as I stare blankly at the wall where my jeans are crumpled at the bottom.
My cheeks are soaked with lines of tears, as I rush out to the lounge, my heels that I neglected to take off after Gerard’s interview clamoring against the hardwood floors with every stride I take.
“Holls, I’m so sorry, I-“ she simply smiles at me as I blubber out an apology, patting the empty cushion next to her on the couch.
“A.F.I. is going on this special tour soon,” she remarks as she flips through channels on the television.
“Hmm?” I run my sleeve against my cheek, picking up the mark of my tears and mascara.
“Yea, something about being mad or sad...yea, definitely sad,” her voice trails off as she stops on a re-run of My So-Called Life, Jared Leto’s face focuses on the screen.
“...Interesting…” my face screws up in thought as her last words ring through my head, thinking about why those two adjectives sounded so familiar.
And suddenly, it clicks, as I swear loudly, ripping out my cell and dialing Brian's number frantically.
“Hey Holly,” a faint smile forces its way on to my face and I squint my eyes to hopefully hide the red shots that poured tears not ten minutes earlier.
“Jeez, took you long enough. I can't function without your obsessive compulsive self doing everything for me. I mean seriously, I’m starving,” she sticks her fork in a carton of Chinese food.
“Um, Holl, isn’t that from before I left…” I peek into the container from over her shoulder.
“Ew, this tastes nothing like chicken,” she makes a disgusted face, throwing the carton onto the coffee table.
“Probably because it says shrimp on the side,” I laugh, readjusting my bag on my shoulder and turning to walk towards the bedroom.
“Touché,” she laughs, following me through the door and plopping down on my bed, hands folded in her lap. She looks at me expectantly, eyebrows raised as she watches me start to unpack my clothes.
“So, how was My Chem?”
“Assholes.”
“Now Kate, seriously, stop gushing,” she laughs, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Fine, it was…” my throat closes up slightly, and I feel a hard pressure on my chest, forbidding me from continuing with my original response. I instead grab a crumpled up sweater from my suitcase, turning around quickly, my hands flying and shaking as I will myself to fold it perfectly.
“Kate…?” I hear my bed springs squeak as Holly stands up. Her soft footsteps near me and soon vibrant green eyes are blocking my view of my intensely interesting shelves of sweaters.
“What happened?” She grabs the sweater from my hands, folding it with ease and precision before setting it on the nearest shelf.
“I don’t want to fucking talk about it,” my voice is hard and cold, plowing its way into Holly’s small stature.
She bites her lip briefly before nodding her head, “All right.”
“Holly, I-“ I feel my walls breaking down, the pressure on my lungs increases and the tears threaten to push their way to the front of my gray eyes.
“No, don’t talk unless you want to,” she shakes her head, her red curls flying every direction, “Just trying to help out.”
And with that, she turns around, walking out the door quickly.
I scream, grabbing the nearest article of clothing and hurling it towards the wall. My breath comes out in short, ragged intervals, as I stare blankly at the wall where my jeans are crumpled at the bottom.
My cheeks are soaked with lines of tears, as I rush out to the lounge, my heels that I neglected to take off after Gerard’s interview clamoring against the hardwood floors with every stride I take.
“Holls, I’m so sorry, I-“ she simply smiles at me as I blubber out an apology, patting the empty cushion next to her on the couch.
“A.F.I. is going on this special tour soon,” she remarks as she flips through channels on the television.
“Hmm?” I run my sleeve against my cheek, picking up the mark of my tears and mascara.
“Yea, something about being mad or sad...yea, definitely sad,” her voice trails off as she stops on a re-run of My So-Called Life, Jared Leto’s face focuses on the screen.
“...Interesting…” my face screws up in thought as her last words ring through my head, thinking about why those two adjectives sounded so familiar.
And suddenly, it clicks, as I swear loudly, ripping out my cell and dialing Brian's number frantically.