She decides to go home for the first time in a week, now more sure of herself - that she can be in a room by herself, that is. I see uncertainty in her eyes when she is telling me this, however, as though the demon, self-deprocating thoughts are already dancing behind those soulful brown irises.
"I'll be fine," she assures me between gnawing at her fingernails.
She shoots me a sheepish smile, picks up her handbag and walks out of the door, my size 14 jeans slipping down her thin hips with every step she takes. I decide to go for a walk. The four walls of my house have been slowly closing in on me since we arrived back from that fateful day at his house. My conflicting thoughts are amplified unbearably within the confines of my childhood home - a place that, ideally, should only be filled with playful, innocent memories. I grab my iPod and my Dad's unsightly headphones, so large they cover the entire surrounding area of either ear and flatten my hair; but so ear-splittingly loud that they may stand a chance of obliterating my resounding conscience. I leave the house and walk in time with the whiny tones of Caleb Followill. I reach the underground station on the main road and decide to catch a train somewhere. Anywhere.
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