Tell Me Your Secrets

When you're moving someplace new, you probably feel one of two things:
One: You're absolutely crushed at the fact that you're moving away from all of your friends and everything you're used to. You've made a life here, why leave?
Two: You're excited at the prospect of a brand new life in a brand new place with a clean slate. The place you're in absolutely sucks, you can't wait to leave.

I don't experience either. When I arrived here, I felt neutral. No matter where I've lived, it's always been the same. Never a single friend. Nobody to cry to, nobody to laugh with, nobody to make memories with, nobody. Ever. Not in Dallas, or Oakland, or Baltimore, or Atlanta, and most certainly not in New York. So why should this new place be any different? If you find a reason, please, do tell.

I fingered in 'I HATE THIS PLACE' into the frost on my window. I looked towards my feet, watching my dog Lyla claw at my shoelaces.

My gaze averted over my shoulder, where my room was half filled with scribbled-on cardboard boxes, some that said Clothes or stuffed animals on them, or maybe Computer stuff. Either way, it was still barely readable.

I signed, my hot breath covering up the markings I'd just made.
I had one hell of a shitload of work to do.
I turned around to face the tower of cheap boxes, staring at them. After finally realizing they weren't going to evanesce in front of my eyes, I decided to get to work with one last sigh.

Making my way across the dark, freezing room was as painful as can be. Chills ran up and down my legs and spine with every excruciating step I took. I knew this place would be just like all the others. I really didn't want to live in another place that I couldn't settle down in. It would all be the exact fucking same thing. Ignored by everyone every single day. Just living in nonexistence. Not a single person knowing I'm standing right in front of them.

You know someone like me. Or should I say, you don't. There's always someone at your school, someone who's always right underneath your nose. They occupy the locker next to you, they sit a row away in American History, and they walk past you in the hallway every day. But you never notice them. If you feel bad, don't. Everyone else does the same thing.

You think it's gotta be hard, just spending every day without anyone there for you, the only person to talk to being your fucking dog, who never gets the chance to talk back. If she could, maybe she would, but can she? That's a question only people in asylums can answer.

But it does get pretty sickening. Just waking up and disappearing off of the face of the earth. Being there without being there. A fly on the wall. Like a spirit. You don't know I'm there...but I am. I'm right in front of you. I'm watching you. Not in a creepy way, but if you're a smart cookie, you'll know what I mean.

But there's no trace of me. No broken records, no warm seats, no displayed trophies. I come, and I go. I arrive, and I leave. All without being noticed.

My fingers touched the stiff surface of a cardboard box. I ran my fingers over the rough, smooth duct tape, finally reaching the box's open spot and dig my nails through the tape.
I ripped open the box. On the side, it read Shirts, scrawled in still-fresh Sharpie.
My torn, vintage Prince shirt laid on top, still crumpled into a bunch but unharmed enough so that you could see Purple Rain slashed in (of course) purple writing across the top.

I picked it up and smelled it. No matter how many times I washed it, it still smelled like my mom: cigarette smoke and chocolate.
Just like I remembered.

I tore open the box of hangers that laid at my feet, carefully placing the shirt on the bright blue, plastic triangle and putting it in the closet. And so it went with the rest of my clothes. Jeans on clip hangers, shirts on normal ones.

Going through the piles of unorganized boxes was like a walk down memory lane. I found I still had my 2nd grade uniform, which still smelled like tempera paint, and my 8th grade yearbook, the signature pages glaringly blank. I still had my photo album from 4 Christmases ago, also blank.
But how would Dad know? He's never around to know if I have friends or not.

After sweating even in the freezing temperatures of my room for a few hours, I finally had my room set up just like I always did it: bed facing the windows, desk in the corner, vanity next to my bed, nightstand across the room, trashcan to the left of the desk. It's the way I always did it.

I didn't have much to unpack, and I had painted my room the day before, having just unloaded the U-Haul today. The walls were a bright red, a few band posters here and there.
I never really got into the interior decoration thing.

Just as I was about to crash on my bed, I heard a voice call my name. I almost thought about who it could be, but the only other person it could be is Jesus Christ.

Dad.

I left my cold room, scurrying into the hallway and gliding down the stairs on the railing.
I silently entered the room, and I guess that was enough for him.
"Sophia, I'm going to the grocery store. We obviously need to stock up on food, so I'll be back in a few hours. It's really snowy out there, so if I get back a little later than that, don't worry."

And then he left. That was it. No I love you, no be safe, not even a goodbye. Just a whoosh of cold air as he opened the door, and then his stiff absence as his shut it. Leaving me alone in a cold, empty, quiet house. But it wasn't anything I wasn't used to.

I nodded for him even after he left, tucking my ear and shuffling into the dining room. The table was wobbling with boxes, the floor was unswept, and it smelled like plaster. Since my room was finished, I decided my next project was the dining room.

I seeked out the silverware from the boxes after removing them. Our plain white tablecloth was buried under a stack of towels, and mom's good plates were wrapped in tissue paper in a box of its own. I set the table just like she always did: salad bowls on top of plates, two napkins on either side, the fork on the left, the knife and spoon on the right.

I swept the bright yellow broom across the floor, gathering all the little dust particles and bits of plaster into a sad little pile in the corner. I put away all the dishes and cups in the mahogany cupboards, and I found the Air Wick at the bottom of a box somewhere. And, while I was at it, I washed a couple of windows, too.

I plopped down on my bed, exhausted from the cleaning and organizing. All the boxes were thrown in the dumpster we rented, and the house was perfectly clean. It didn’t take long to unpack, since we didn’t have much to put away anyways. When mom was alive, our house was full and warm and cozy, but then she was gone, and Dad couldn’t stand having anything that reminded us of her within eyesight anymore.
But before I knew it, my eyes had eased themselves closed, and I was falling asleep after a long night’s work.

I could dream again.