Eyes On You

Chapter 2-1

2

I kiss Aimee as she leaves for work.

I can tell she’s jealous that I’m off work for two whole days. It’s her own fault. She should have put in for leave sooner. February’s always easier to get time off at the hospital. No one takes days so close after Christmas, and normally, neither do I, but with the move, and tidying up the flat, I thought I might as well use up a few.

I take a look around the hallway, at the bathroom, at the living room, and smile. First day alone in the flat. No mother bugging me about clean clothes, always promising to stay out of my room. No neighbour’s dog barking outside. No phone ringing every five minutes.

Complete privacy.

I can even stay in my white T-shirt and Spider-man pyjama-bottoms all day.

Paradise.

I pull out the laptop from the cardboard box, take it to the bedroom, and then plug it into the wall. I do the same for the printer, and within minutes I’m online. Haven’t surfed the Web in a few days, been too preoccupied with the move. It feels like the world has gone on without me and I’m out of the loop. I check my emails, social networks, and various movie sites, which takes me about an hour, and then I’m bored. I spend the next hour downloading a few episodes of Family Guy and watching some stupid videos on YouTube. The brightness of the screen starts to tire my eyes so I rub them hard.

Another hour goes by and I’m hungry. Have to stop eating so much. Looking down at my midriff, I inspect the slight bulge. Oh s**t—don’t think that was there before Christmas. Definitely not. Need to get back down the gym. Spring’ll be here in no time. I lift my T-Shirt up and see three rolls of flab across my stomach. Jesus Christ, those are definitely new. I straighten and then suck in my belly. It’s not that bad. Just the way I’m sitting.

My phone beeps—a second text from Mum asking if I’m all right. I think about ignoring it again, but then that will lead to a phone call, then a visit, and then a full-blown panic attack.

No thank you.

But she really needs to accept that I’ve moved on with my life, that I’m not a dumb, emotional teenager anymore, and that Aimee is not some crazy-arse man-eater that all mothers fear—she’s the greatest thing to happen to me in years. Yeah, she may be eight years younger, but that suits me just fine. I’ve been out of the game for a long time, so I’ve got some serious catching up to do.

I reply to Mum telling her that I’m fine, and then I get up off the chair, releasing a giant yawn at the same time.

I’m hungry.

Inside the kitchen, I open the fridge and scan each shelf. Can’t see anything I fancy. Maybe a ham sandwich? I kneel down to check the bottom compartment for salad ingredients. I pull out a cucumber and a bag of lettuce. Just as I’m about to stand, I notice a large shard of glass poking out from under the fridge. I pick it up and take it over to the bin. Guess I ain’t having any beetroot then.

I prepare the sandwich, lay it on a small plate, and then carry it back into the bedroom. A small cardboard box under the desk catches my eye. I slide it out, peel off the parcel-tape from the top and then open it. I don’t remember packing this; Mum must have done it. Inside, I find a few postcards from Uncle Gary, a couple of videotapes, and a stack of photos bundled together with an elastic band. I remove the band and start to flick through. Most of them are ones of me as a kid, at the park or playing in the garden with my cousin. There’re a couple of Dad, as well. I stare a little too long at the one with him and me at the beach; his legs buried in the sand, his forehead burnt to a crisp. Happier times. My throat catches so I move on to the next photo. It’s me, mid-teens, full of zits, dressed in black, sitting on Gran’s armchair. I seem so different in this, like a stranger. I remember trying to smile that day, but it was too hard back then even to fake it.

The next few are just random ones from parties and weddings, with some just senseless pictures of the sky. The sight of all these photos makes my skin crawl; dragging me back to that shitty time in my life.

Some things are best left forgotten.

I quickly get to the end of the stack, making sure that there aren’t any embarrassing ones, or photos of my ex-girlfriend. There’re none, so I drop them back into the box, push it under the desk, and then return to the computer.

Another hour or so passes and I can feel the drowsiness start to kick in. I rub my eyes again and run my fingers through my short brown hair. Could easily have a nap right now. I lean back in my chair, yawning, just as a cold rush of air slithers behind me, blowing a few papers off the desk and onto the floor. Turning to see if the window is open, I notice Luna; he’s standing in the doorway, staring at me in silence. “Out!” I yell to him. He doesn’t move a muscle. Stupid cat. The window is closed, so I get up off the chair, gather up the papers, and then check the rest of the flat. When I see that the living room and kitchen windows are both closed, I walk over to the flat door. It’s locked. Putting it down to a hidden vent, I make my way into the bedroom. Luna is still standing in the bedroom doorway, staring at my desk—and the papers are back on the floor. Shaking my head in confusion, I nudge the cat out onto the hallway, using the side of my foot. “Where the b****y hell’s that draught coming from?” I mutter to myself, looking up at the ceiling and walls for a vent. Shrugging it off as another one of life’s great mysteries, I pick up the stray papers and return to the screen.