Mr Kingston's Roommate | ꪜ

Mr Kingston's Roommate|01

Edited

Leila's POV
Goodbye

My hair is hardly something I'd find myself complaining about. Who cares if it's too straight or frizzy and long or short? Those were the things I never harped on. However, as time passed by and those around me beat down on the already wounded horse, I picked and prodded at the most miniscule of things.

And in the end, my self-worth took the hardest hit.

Is my hair too short? Are my clothes not pretty and trendy enough? Are my eyes too big? Is my stomach too flat? It's human nature to ask these questions throughout the course of our lives.

In hindsight, it's normal to feel less confident most days and too confident other times. But, what isn't normal is asking those questions every single day and purposely seeking a problem that simply does not exist.

It's either the aftermath of self-hatred, low self-esteem, body dysmorphia or criticism from the people we look up to. My reasons are the former and the latter. I began to hate myself because everyone around me already did.

So I decided to join the trend of beating myself down into a pull.

As I stared back at my reflection, I pulled my hair into a ponytail and forced a smile on my lips. My phone which was in my hand had flickered on. Staring up at me was my glimmer of hope; hope that there were still good people on this planet.

It was a photo of my boyfriend Reese and I on our last date before my venture off to College. He's the only person who still reminds me of my beauty and now I have to leave him behind.

I sighed heavily as I placed my phone into the pocket of my jeans. Although a part of me did not want to leave for his sake, I'm glad to finally be out of this house. After college, I'm never coming back here. There's nothing left for me.

I retrieved my suitcase at the foot of my bedroom door and left without bothering to turn back and soak in the feeling of nostalgia. This house was once a cheerful place but now it's just a ghost of those haunting memories, lingering for a simple sign of its bitter revival.

I carried my suitcase all the way down the stairs and halted at the entrance of the living room where my father was currently slouched against the lazy boy reading a worn-out newspaper. "I'm leaving." He peered up from the newspaper with disinterest. I couldn't be bothered by his nonchalance to me leaving home.

I've lost all hope of my father reverting to the loving man he once was. It's been years so I've learnt from my mistakes and now I just carry on every day with my head low and my dreams crushed.

He's the last ghost lingering in this house. The only difference is that he couldn't be bothered to be revived. "Drive safely, I don't need another child dying." He's incapable of wishing me a safe drive without further sinking the dagger every living being around me had punctured into my back.

I desperately wanted to let my lungs do the shouting for me and sob out that I wish I would die on my way. But that would trigger him. And triggering him is triggering me.

A vicious cycle we've never been able to break the shackles of.

"Whatever," I decided upon the least hurtful thing to say. The two syllable word that has haunted my vocabulary over the past few years. Whatever. Nothing is just whatever.

Especially not my life.

I want to die.

Just to spite him.

Once I made it to my car, I popped the trunk open and shoved the suitcase inside. Once everything was settled and I was prepared to leave, I peered up at the place I once called my home. Too many memories were sprawled against its cream coloured walls.