Chapter 3
Ashley
My mind, it wrestled, it war’d, it raged,
it tried to reconcile,
“Faaaackk me,” I groan into my pillow, burying my face in the fabric and dragging the duvet over my head to block out the beachfront chaos.
Laughs and shrieks crash through the open windows, drilling against my already pounding head.
The salty smell of the sea a bit too strong today.
Drinking alone last night probably wasn’t the greatest idea.
But I lost my job, so I figured it was excusable.
Though I don’t remember drinking as much as this headache suggests.
Then again, isn’t that what makes it fun?
My feet kick the air in a hungover tantrum.
“Ouch!”
I shoot out of bed, clutching a pillow in front of me like a sword and regretting the movement immediately.
“What the hell?” I half shout. Squinting to clear the fog in my head, now suddenly very aware that I’m naked.
“What on earth are you doing?”
Ah. I wasn’t drinking alone after all. My frown deepens as I put the pillow to better use and launch it at him. “Go back to your flat, Raph,” I grumble, fumbling through my drawers for painkillers. Or rum.
“Gladly,” he smirks, stretching his pale, muscular body out like a stray alley cat. “Lest you kick me again and attack me with a pillow.”
“Sorry.” I’m not. I find his boxers and striped pajama bottoms on the floor somewhere and shove them into his arms in an encouragement to go.
Now. Once he leaves with a smug wink that makes me loathe myself even more, I collapse onto my bed, glaring at the ceiling.
Oh, how I wish I had found rum, but I settle for waiting for the paracetamol to kick in.
His footsteps thud across the ceiling, obnoxiously loud.
Using all my strength, I fumble for another pillow and throw it upwards, but it lands on my face.
I huff out a noise that’s half laugh, half despair, and I swear this is the last time I let that man into my bed. I mean it this time.
Glancing around my flat, that familiar pang of disgust rattles my chest. How have I let it get this messy?
There’s no plan in place to do anything about it, but at least I’m self-aware.
I really do love my little studio, though.
One room containing my bed, and a half-functional excuse for a kitchen.
Is that an oven? No clue. The place is shoddy, and the landlord couldn’t give a damn.
But neither can I, so it works as long as the rent clears.
I didn’t choose the place for its quality anyway; I chose it for the floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the wild blue-grey of the sea.
It’s mesmerising. Sometimes I stare at the waters for hours.
My bed is as close to the windows as it can get, so I can fall asleep facing it; the swishing waves lull me to sleep every night.
No point in making the place feel like home.
I don’t have many belongings anyway, just the essentials in case I want to move again.
Except, this doesn’t feel like anywhere I’ve lived before.
As soon as I visited Southend for Macy’s birthday last year, it was clear that this is where I need to be.
Can’t say I feel like I’m home exactly, but home adjacent.
When I’m confident the room has stopped spinning, I rummage through a pile of clothes and throw on a black top and some leggings that smell passable.
I cringe, studying my reflection in the hallway mirror, my fingers tracing my sunken cheeks.
God, I’ve lost so much joy in my face this past year.
My eyes, though, are still striking. A vivid green with flecks of light brown contrasting my sandy skin. They’d always been a talking point.
“It is like looking into a beautiful jungle in the middle of summer.” Dad’s booming voice echoes in my mind.
“We have jungles where I am from. All sorts of creatures roam the soil and trees. And even worse ones roam the skies. Scary!” He’d chase and tickle me until my eyes watered.
“Not like you though, my flame. You are not scary. You are beautiful and strong. A Princess. A Queen.”
A faint smile creeps onto my lips as memories of my parents flood my mind, but thinking about them for too long is dangerous.
That’s when my power slips. When the good memories crack and the darker ones seep through.
I don’t want to think about him rocking in the corner.
Eyes hollow, not noticing when I tugged at his arms begging him to play.
Mum carrying me back to bed, whispering comfort meant for us both.
And always his mumbling, about going home.
Maybe their deaths were a mercy after all.
In that case, you’re very welcome, Mum and Dad.
A small flame slips from my fingertips and singes a hole through the stack of letters on the floor.
Smoke curls up from the paper. Thankfully, the first thing I do in any new place is disarm the fire alarm.
I flap the letter around, blowing the smoke away before tossing it in the bin.
Can’t pay a bill if you can’t read it. A stray piece of frizz falls into my face, and I tuck it behind my ear.
Where the rain caught my hair last night, my dark, wild curls are showing.
I’ll have to deal with it later. I sigh and throw on my jacket, slamming the door shut behind me.
Time to find a drink, a job, and maybe an explanation as to why the sea won’t stop calling my name.