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Chapter Text

Entry 1: Departing from Home 27\10\2024

After much ridiculing and light bickering with my insistent, incorrigible mothers, I finally bought a home for myself. At 18 in Britain, my birth country, you’re deemed a legal adult, and you’re expected to fly on your own from there. I always believed that to be a silly rule, and dropping newly-formed adults into bustling society was preposterous or even reckless. If you review the facts, exiling a child from their shelter once a certain age is reached seems quite brutal. I reckon a kid’s brain is not even fully developed by eighteen. Nonetheless, the baby bird learns to fly. If I did not plan to move out soon, my Mums would have packed my luggage and left their poor son on the front porch. Though I do not believe my sisters would have felt bothered by my never-ending dwelling inside the house. Through my mother’s half-Russian bickering and incessant resistance to let me live on the sofa, I set off on a mighty voyage to find my humble abode.

Going far from home was far from my intentions. My family may be a crutch under my arm at times, but when you are the youngest child, you must optimise the parental leniency you are granted. Between my four sisters and me, it only took a simple glance to recognise me as the odd child. When I was just developing in the womb, my mother was sure I would be a girl, just like the rest of my sisters. I was to be named Sasha, but my birth took her by surprise, and they had to improvise my name from Sasha to Waylen, the male nurse’s name. Back in their post-Soviet Russian cities, Sasha would have been an acceptable male or female name; however, the British boys would have ripped me to shreds in reception. Contrary to my mother’s fears for me, my sisters still call me Sasha to this day.

Hampstead, London, is the only place I’ve ever known, though my mothers chatted endlessly about life in Russia before they immigrated to England. All I know is homosexuality is enough to get you locked up under the Soviet justice regime, especially in my Mothers’ time. So evacuating their hometown was the only option. I could not describe Russian life adequately, even if I read the basics out of a book; all I know is the library of Russian curse words for appropriate moments. Subsequently, during my developmental stages, I learned both English and Russian simultaneously, which significantly impaired my speech, resulting in my being held back a year in primary school. Today, school does not worry me, for I have graduated, even if I passed my classes in less than ideal ways. My cheating strategies had been carefully developed throughout secondary school to the end of Sixth form.

Oftentimes, boredom is my worst enemy and overthrows my dignity, which has led to some questionable uses of my time. Concentrating on subjects I won’t remember in a fortnight is nearly impossible, let alone a useless waste of time. The only unit I barely retained information from was the one about marine animals and aquatic ecosystems. The seals were just so adorably corpulent, I genuinely enjoyed a biology lesson for once. The massive amounts of blubber in their bodies protect them from harsh frigid temperatures is not only fascinating but also extremely cute. That's all I’ve remembered from primary school, secondary school and sixth form, along with something about Mitochondria, the cell's power-house. The only challenge school ever presented to me was how to cheat without getting caught. I may as well be the captain of the league of outstanding cheaters. It’s just what I’m good at; everyone has their talents, even if mine is less resume-worthy. I explored various methods throughout the years spent in a wretched hell filled with desks, chairs and chalkboards.

To start, writing formulas or definitions on your skin is an option if you’re an amateur. Or feigning illness to rush home and have an extra night of studying, but in British schools, they’ll just ring your mum up to rush you some extra clothes in case you vomit on yourself. To become a cheating champion, such as myself, getting more creative is inevitable. If you’re a lad like me and the dress code requires belts, take advantage of the blank slate crafted in your uniform that’s perfectly made for storing answers. I’m above simply slipping cheat sheets into coat pockets or sleeves, though I’ve noticed various ladies sneak them at the ends of their skirts, and no professor would notice that unless they're a pervert. The school board and Ofsted most likely view pedophilia as a more urgent offence than cheating.

Another clever trick to aid in passing exams is cutting a rubber in half and glueing your answer key inside it; the only disadvantage is that your penmanship must be minuscule. A copious number of students inquired about why I don’t study the material upfront instead of creating an underground, completely scandalous operation that doesn’t even guarantee a high score. It is because I enjoy it. Every time a test or paper is handed back to me with a mediocre grade, I know that I scandalously finessed, and I can’t help feeling proud of myself. I find people who excel academically to be pedantic and abstruse, and I’m lucky not to resemble them. High achievers can still be lovely people, or so I tell myself, even though I’ve never met a lovely high achiever. Still, I don’t abhor dedicated scholars; however, relating to them is difficult for me.

It is not limited to cheating that enthrals my spirit, but a myriad of immoral activities create euphoria. Back at school, I adored pulling harmless, mischievous pranks, such as hiding my friend’s belongings. Once or twice, I announced that I had found out about the secret pop quiz for that day, and watched the classroom erupt into panic over an imaginary obstacle. On occasion, I have swiped a new toothbrush or a handful of sweets off the shelves and swiftly into my pocket. Committing simple wrongdoings excites me, but overall, it causes no harm. I’m not a bad guy; I only have hobbies and passions. Of course, some people despise me and my antics, my personality and carefree lifestyle, but I refuse to take their judgments too personally. My eldest sister Annikah scolds me gently for my disobedience, but I don’t listen. She would not take drastic measures to inform our mothers because I’m harmless. However, she would not hesitate to stomp on my foot if she spotted a new object I snagged or a suspiciously high test score. My sister kept me in line almost all the time; if I was sneaky enough to slide past her judgment, it was a celebratory occasion.

Luckily, she loved me enough to assist me in departing our childhood home. Her husband, Prudence, was willing to assist in finding me a new residence, though I do not fully trust him. The smug grin adorns his face while showing off his latest house models, that clearly out of my price range. A couple of weeks before this entry, our multiple consultations were unexciting and frustrating, as many conversations go with a landlord. He stood with such prestigious confidence and spoke with the tone of a charismatic salesman.

“Now this flat has a full kitchen with marble counters, two bedrooms, one bathroom and a lounging area with a sofa and a television for your comfort and leisure.” Inferring by the way he spoke, he must have been an overachiever in school. My brother-in-law's pristine confidence annoyed me immensely.

”Prudence, you know I don’t care for the details. How much is the deposit?” I sighed and responded rather kindly.

“Well, for this 70 square meter flat, the initial deposit is going to be £12,000, last month and this month’s rent, plus some extra for the company. The monthly rent will then come out to a completely affordable £3000. Now this is an entirely reasonable price within the city of London-“

As I mentioned, he once again began preaching to the wrong choir. The deposit for this flat was undeniably out of my budget.

”Come again? Did you say £3,000 is the deposit? Well, that’s a relief, I thought you said-”

“It is £12,000. You heard me perfectly clear, Waylen.”

I sighed, visibly frustrated, but refused to give up negotiating a bargain.

“Listen… can’t you give me a family discount? Or a brother discount? You know you’re like an older brother to me, right, Prudence?”

“I am giving you the low end of the price range already because you are my brother-in-law. I would love to offer you a cheaper deposit, but you’re not the only one looking to rent this flat. There are other offers and bargains I could take and-”

“No, no, you don’t get where I’m coming from, Prudence. If you want me to pay £12,000, I’m either going to have to embezzle funds from the game shop I work at and pay you in Nintendo game cards for the rent, or just rob a bank or something.”

“In that case, I happen to have one final option to aid in your financial struggles. I did mention I have other clients willing to rent this flat. So I suggest you split the deposit with another renter while it’s still on the market.”

“You mean live with a roommate? Do I really have to? It’s not what I had in mind…”

“I don’t think you have much of a choice. This is my final offer, what do you say, Mister Zhukovsky?” He held out his hand to shake on the deal.

“I suppose I’ll take it for £6,000.” Our hands clasped together as I sealed the deal, a part of me was proud I was able to finally purchase a place of my own, even if I did have to split it with a stranger.

He handed me the lease papers to sign with that stupidly smug businessman grin, the kind he makes when he’s too pleased by someone else’s discomfort. I sloppily signed the contract without caring to read through the agreements and notices; all I saw was that the deposit was due in 4 months. As I signed the paper in my discordant handwriting, I realised my surname, Zhukovsky, had been written in error by my careless attitude; unfortunately, it had been scribed in black pen. The lease was under Waylen S. Zhukoovsky, but I could not let him see my defeat and decided to handle the misspelling when I inevitably had to give him my birth certificate to authorise the purchase.

“Can you at least rent it to a girl?” I whispered as I handed him back the contract.

“You are such a child, and do not go robbing any banks.” He chuckled and looked at me disapprovingly.

“You know me, I can’t make any promises.” I made a last remark as I skipped out the door.

Chapter Text

It is a fact that Prudence returned home to his wife, my sister, and reminded her of what a headache I am. At the very least, my family takes care of each other, and I can trust them to be there if I mess up beyond repair. I can always fall back on my sisters, but Annika will know how to help me back on my feet. I am not a dependent person in terms of money or stability, but I’m loyal as can be. Most of the mates I went to school with had parted ways with each other and drowned in the big city beyond the moors of Hampstead. I often wish just one of them would reach out just to ask how I’m surviving. They all must have new lives to attend to, but I’m still in my parents’ house and working in that same Game Shop I’ve been employed at since I was 15. Over the next several weeks, I picked up various extra shifts at the Game Shop. Truthfully, I have never worked so vigorously in my entire life, even when I spent days and nights crafting the perfect cheating strategies to ace my exam. Until finally, I had the money to make half the deposit I owed to Prudence. A few days before my 19th birthday, I was granted access to the flat. The satisfaction of jingling the keys I owned around my fingers was unprecedented. For once in my life, I earned something from hard, honest work. I assumed there was a possibility I was growing out of my childish and ambitious habits. It was time to leave my old self behind, a fresh, new, honest, kind, and respectful Waylen would walk through the door. He did not take what did not belong to him, and he earned his achievements with dignity and not the filth of immoral business. He would be the type of man women actually wanted to be with, and friends had friends who wanted to stay by his side. Annika drove me to load my belongings into the flat I now rented a share of. I was beaming, I truly felt like a new person. The stairwell was cold and empty. It looked as if the area had been refused occupancy for years. Perhaps there was a reason Prudence recommended it to me. The rickety steps creaked embarrassingly loud, but it was not enough to diminish my spirits yet. When I reached the top floor of the duplex flat, I found myself staring right at the door of my new home. A home that belonged to the better version of me. My mischievous and rambunctious side will always be a part of me, but in this moment, I needed it to stay hidden away so I could bask in this proper achievement of mine. The door was tall, and a bold navy blue paint adorned the fine wood. The colour complemented the gold, brass knob well; however, it was impossible not to take note of how many locks were fixed onto the door above the nob. I had never seen such a variety of locks in my life, let alone a whole collection on a singular door. The excessive amount of them made an eerie switch in the wind. One lock is expected, a way of protection from intruders, but a hundred locks signal a warning. Perhaps an indirect Keep out sign, as if to stop me from entering my own pro poetry. The only way to successfully get passed every lock was the key. Unfortunately, unravelling a hundred locks on a door is incredibly inefficient. After almost half an hour of triumphant key turning, the scene had been set. The colossal door screeched open; it clearly had been shut for a millennium, and I finally witnessed the face of my new life. The interior was cleaner than I had observed with Prudence during the consultation, the floors were much neater, and the rooms were less dusty. In fact, not a single article of furniture or decor was out of place. An uncertain thought came over me as I noticed the spotlessness of the flat; somebody had been inside the premises before I got the chance to move in. I certainly did not hire anyone to clean the area; my savings account was on the verge of bankruptcy from the deposit could prove it. I suppose it could have been Prudence or one of the flat staff, and I let my suspenseful thoughts exit. As I looked up from the pristine floors, I noticed the window parallel to my standing point was covered with a blue tarp; it was also nowhere to be seen during my consultation with Prudence. The windows didn’t seem flimsy or broken then, so why the tarp? That’s when the suspense returned to the scene. Perchance, the mystery cleaner who had been in the flat before me had cracked the window. Apart from the tarps, the flat looked relatively normal. The floors were laid with grayish brown planks of oak, and the walls were a light crème colour, which was met with a faded floral wallpaper in the corridor. From where I stood in the front doorway, there was a coat rack with pegs hung above a shoe rack to my left, and to my right, there sat an umbrella basket next to a small wooden bench. Once I stepped out of the corridor, the kitchen walls of white tile met the desaturated floral wallpaper. The kitchen had appliances huddled together like sardines in a can in a square formation. An oven sat against the far wall of the kitchen, smushed between the dishwasher, clothes washer, clothing dryer, counter and cupboards. More cupboards clung to the tile wall. I stepped into the tile room through the cube of space between the wall and the dishwasher to peek inside the cupboards, only to find one of each dish. Inside lay exactly one large plate, one small dessert plate, one bowl, one short glass and one tall glass. “I suppose I should buy a few more dishes,” I noted to myself. In the lower cupboards, the dividers held precisely one fork, one spoon, one butter knife and one steak knife. “I’ll add cutlery to the list as well.” I added to my note. Parallel to the kitchen was a small living room with no wall to separate the two areas. The living room consisted of a grey sofa, an oak coffee table that nearly matched the floors, and a television upon a white stand. To the left of the sofa was a glass door that led to a fine balcony that allowed two people to stand comfortably outside. Though the view was nothing to write home about, just a higher look over the street and a couple of pine trees planted randomly across the grassy plain. As I attempted to retreat from the frigid British autumn weather by returning inside, the glass panel door made a horribly eerie screeching sound. The ringing pitch almost sounded like an actual cry of terror that reverberated off the narrow, concrete walls and corridors of the flat. “I ought to grease the hinges on that thing…” I advised myself briefly, touching the brass hinges on the thin door, which left grey, sandy dust on my fingertips. The dust was quickly swiped off my brown trousers, and I moved on. The next area I approached on my self-led tour was the slender East corridor at the farther end of the flat. The old and scarcely peeling floral wallpaper returned to the wall to cover the senile bricks. The flowers were of some indistinguishable kind, with minuscule lavender and pink buds upon light green stems laid out in rows on a crème background all the way down the compressed hall. The baseboards that connected the floor to the walls matched the oaky brown floors well enough, but not a complete colour match. In the precise middle of the corridor, two white doors on opposing walls stared at each other in parallel. They resembled the identical doors that game shows frequently displayed, the ones that either had a £1,000,000 prize or a snake behind it for the participants to blindly choose which to open. I assumed these doors led to bedrooms, and it was my turn to gamble on doors. There was nothing specific to expect besides a bed and a mattress at the least, for all I know, there could be a snake in one room and £1,000,000 in the other. Between the tarps on the windows, screaming door hinges, and singular utensils, the flat had been filled with abnormalities thus far, and I was only further proven to be correct with the bedrooms. As my fingers weaved around the door handle to the door on the right side of the hallway, I turned the handle downwards only to find it was stuck; perhaps it was locked. No other door in the flat was locked or difficult to enter through in the least bit besides the front door because of the lock collection. I tried again and again, fiddling with the handle and putting my weight on it to see which method would budge the painted lump of wood that blocked my viewing of the next room. I am not known to be particularly strong; the average number of press-ups I could complete the last time I was recorded in gym class was 3. My body has little mass, and I never seemed to gain enough weight, even as a child. Though it has done no harm to my health, I tended to be more socially ostracised due to my less desirable physique. The handle stubbornly refused to turn open; it was surely locked, though I did not see a way it could be locked from the outside due to the lack of a keyhole. I sat at the opposite door facing the unmovable mountain a meter away. I may have cheated my way through school, but I assumed I could solve a simple conundrum regarding The Mystery of the Locked Door. The only possible explanation within my reasoning was that the door had been locked from the inside; however, that could only mean somebody was inside the room. There was no way that could be plausible; I had not heard even a stir of movement since the moment I walked inside the flat. Besides, this flat is on the second floor of the complex, meaning to jump out a window entailed quite a fall. The flat building consisted of two stories, an upstairs with four flats that housed roughly 8-9 people, and a downstairs with two flats that housed roughly 4-5 people. In other words, the scheme of someone hiding inside a bedroom and jumping out the window, awaiting a 6-meter fall, was too elaborate to be plausible. On the other hand, who would enter my flat unannounced? In the midst of my pondering, I heard a click behind me, and I lost my balance. Upon falling backwards, I realised the door behind me gave out after I leaned backwards against it for too long, and the back of my head hit the ground with a hard thunk. I shut my eyes hard in a wince, bracing for the impact, though the pain was less severe than I had previously anticipated. When I opened my eyes, I caught sight of the ceiling, which I had not observed yet. It was the same crème colour as the walls, that musty, outdated colour I’ll have to look at for the next couple of years of my life. The dust accompanied my deep inhale uninvited, and I began coughing as I stood back up to observe my bedroom. It was what I expected, but the layout still managed to shock me. The first note I made was that the bed was placed abnormally. In typical bedrooms, it’s common for the headboard of the bed frame to sit against a wall, or both the headboard and a side of the bed to sit against the wall. Never in my life did I think I would walk into a bedroom where the footboard joined the wall. It just looked awkward and unsettling. As if the interior designer had a rough day and declared, “Good enough”. The next anomaly of the room was the bedframe held nothing but a senile, dusty mattress, which matched the rest of the room. There were no sheets, pillows, or comforters to be found within the room, or even the whole flat. “I guess I’ll sleep on the mattress tonight?” I questioned myself, wondering why my spirits had descended from the triumph of entering my first flat to sleeping on a dusty mattress with no sheets the same night. The last oddity worth mentioning in the bedroom was the tacky wooden closet that stood against no walls, simply in the middle of the room, far from the doorway but close to the bedside. This whole quarter of the flat presented itself like aliens had come down to Earth and attempted to replicate the standard living quarters of a human. I scanned the area again and again, as if I was going to find something different in each glance, but nothing changed. Just then, as I turned around and something in fact had changed, it caught my utmost attention. The door parallel to where I was standing in the entrance of my room, the one I had immensely struggled to open for minutes, was now open. All the doors in the flat creaked with unnecessarily sonorous screams, but I heard not a peep from the door directly in front of me. Not only that, but I had begun to feel sore from how strenuously I worked to not even crack the door open, yet here it was, gaping and hollowed. I’m amazed, but more so confused. I ran through my head how such an event could have perspired. Doing so, I revisited the fantasy of a person locking themself inside the room and crawling out of the window, which was impossible; however, it thoroughly entertained me. In my head, I changed the narrative. What if the person inside was hiding, locked it from the inside and stayed hidden until I wasn’t looking, then crept out without a sound. Perhaps to compensate for the anticlimactic self-led tour of my flat, I was making up stories about little people running circles around me while my back is turned. With the door ajar, I decided to take a look inside, quietly stepping across the corridor as the floorboards screamed. The room had the same floral-pattern wallpaper as the rest of the corridor walls; some areas were bruised or peeling, perhaps from the age of the home. Perhaps from pulling nails and paintings off the walls as people came and went from this flat. It was clear the building must be at the very least several decades old, though it is not something I can complain about. I always enjoyed the aesthetic of old buildings despite the femininity and decrepit structure. Growing up in London, the eldest monuments always outshine the newer ones. It is a fact that the older, Gothic architecture is favoured and well kept to keep it standing. The uncharted room, which previously would have taken the strength of Hercules to enter, lay before me much more prim than the room I chose as mine. There was a bed with an intricate image of angels with harps and lilies carved into the wooden headboard with satin milky sheets and a white lace dust ruffle to match. Next to the bed, a chalky nightstand with a few drawers and detailed legs held a porcelain lamp with even more detailed murals, this time with a bit of pink, clay and gold flecks. It was clear that the occupant of this room came from good fortune; the furniture was fragile and expensive. Maybe that was the explanation for the door practically being sewn shut, though it does not explain how the thread has so easily and instantly become undone. This room differed from mine a great amount; this room faced the outside road and moors, and a window allowed me to observe it, nearly identical to the balcony in the sitting room. Despite the window with long cream lace curtains, the artifact worth my utmost attention was an old black piano; the fleeting light of the sun cast a shine over it, which made it appear newer than the rest of the chamber. With curiosity winning me over, I stepped towards it, my towering height seemed to make the small keyed instrument cower as I bent over and placed a finger on a white rectangular block surrounded by minuscule two black keys. The perfectly in tune middle D rang and echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls and through my unfortunately frail body. The sound was perfect but unsettling. I have never indulged in studying musical instruments, but this sound was like no other; it was piercing and the sound was wiry, as if it had not been played for a millennium. The eeriness of the bedroom chamber was enough to force me back through the door frame, closing the white door with chipped paint behind me. The mystery of the impossible open door, along with the ancient decor and strange coldness to the room, was enough to disturb me in my new home, though it is not enough to make me detest my living quarters. I’ll simply occupy the room across the narrow corridor without any sheets or a window. At the end of the corridor, in the far east area of the flat, was a small toilet. The shower curtains had a pattern of yet another tacky floral pattern, which hid behind the darkness and seldom light. The heat from the radiator in the kitchen did not reach the toilet and the surrounding area was frigid. The sink was icy to the touch, and the mirror had fogged from the low temperature. I now see why Prudence ushered me away from the east corridor during the home tour when he sold it to me. The flat could make use of a couple more radiators. The inky, black, starless, night sky had painted over the horizon, which only accentuated the true lack of heat in the building. In preparation to sleep, I approached the radiator stationed in the kitchen/living room and unplugged it for a moment so its heat was unable to singe my reddened hands. While the white, dusty, metal rings cooled off, a polar wave of wind rushed through the corridors and bounced off the walls of the flat. The brisk arctic air gushed right through me like a colony of spirits, nearly knocking me over from the crisp force of the cold. Freezing weather is something that I should be well accustomed to from my ancestry and environmental upbringing, but there are some forces of nature humans cannot withstand, no matter how much exposure they endure. My mothers often recount the narrative of their past escaping communist Russia during the fall of the Soviet Union. It is no surprise they know the cold, so why shouldn’t I? When you’re starving, or thirsty, or in my case freezing, it is the only element you can focus on, the writhing pain in your fingertips and the end of your nose. In moments of survival, there is only one issue: find warmth, or find food or clean water. No matter how evolved humans might become, we’re still animals at the core, and primal instincts will always drive us. At this instant, I resemble nothing but a mammal struggling to find warmth and rest my exhausted body. When necessary aspects of survival are lost, all other issues lay dormant. The stress of finding bed sheets to sleep on, or how early I have to wake to make it to work on time, has become lost in my battle for warmth. My thick royal blue coat and grey knit gloves are no match for the British autumn nights, no matter how much I hug my thin body for warmth or blow hot breath down my jumper. Shivering helplessly in the corner of the living room, huddled by the cooling radiator, I wait patiently. Enduring the frosty atmosphere, I observed the ends of my fingers turn purple, and I held them up to the radiator. It hesitated to burn; the fiery glow was still radiating off of it, but I could no longer endure the torture permitted by the poor insulation of my flat. Thus, I picked up the hot ringed appliance with my gloved hands; it was surprisingly helpful in refuting the numbness in my hands. As I pulled the radiator from its outlet, the wariness began to revive me from my frozen, almost preservative state. I began to fantasise, as I hauled the heavy heating houseware, of my room filling with a toasty, satisfying air, to drive out the malicious coldness. I could hardly wait to rest my head in a comfortably heated room, as I predicted, survival instincts had taken over my imaginative mind due to the harshness of the environment. Unfortunately, I underestimated the weight of the radiator and struggled to lift it off the ground; therefore, I ended up dragging it off the west wall and beginning my expedition to the east corridor. The legs of the appliance screeched across the oak floorboards, emitting a terrible howl as I attempted to move it across the flat. Due to my lack of strength and the abhorrent, earsplitting shriek of the radiator, I took momentary rests. Thankfully, the amount of effort I needed to pull the heating appliance increased my body temperature, and the strenuous exercise allowed the shivering coldness to disperse. After a grueling few minutes of shuffling my radiator halfway across my flat I finally won the battle and ensured my survival. The excitement was comparable to that of a hero slaying a dragon, except for the fact that my energy was comparable to the energy of a mother after a long day of taking care of a home and 18 children. As I plugged the appliance into the wall outlet directly outside my bedroom, I could almost sense my legs tremble with exhaustion. The east corridor was even dimmer at night, almost unpenetrable without night vision goggles. All I could see was the gargantuan grandfather clock at the end of the hall, the shadows cast over the front of it like a cloak of a twisted and demented demeanour as it read 12:00 o’clock midnight. Observing the clock and seeing that I had occupied space in my very own flat for not one day but now two was both rewarding and frightening. On one hand, I feel like a true adult, one who doesn’t come running home like a child to their parents’ bedroom after a few too many nightmares. However, it is also a frightful and tormenting discovery. In the past, the change has not been kind to me, and I often let it devour me. My mothers and sisters, my family, will never be there to wake me up if I’ve overslept, or tell me about their days until we’re too tired to continue chatting. I miss the chaotic setting with so many people in one space. We were the only family each of us had because of all the relatives my parents left behind in Russia; no grandparents or aunts or uncles, or cousins had ever been introduced. We only had each other, and it was perfect. I can only hope independence will not be the cause of my insanity. I suppose my view of my childhood life is seen through rose coloured lenses, and that it may not have been as perfect or dreamy as I imagine it now. However, it is most definitely preferable over this bleak bedroom with chipping walls and a bed with no bedsheets. Unfortunately, my exhaustion would win me over as I stumbled across the creaking oak floorboards and collapsed onto the springy mattress that screeched under my weight, and dust blew off of it. I did not even think to shut the bedroom door, though it would have been little aid to me, considering the hot air is blowing inwards through the doorframe from the radiator. Despite the uncomfortable material of the mattress, I put my arm under my head as a pillow and shut my eyes, attempting to sleep after a day’s work of settling in. Unluckily, I awoke within minutes after putting my head down to an unfilterable noise. I could easily ignore the faint ticking of the grandfather clock down the hall, but this was too vivid and horrible to simply block by sleep. A piercing drill along a cacophony of clanking and hammering into the wall, ringing through the whole flat. The unbearable din of chaos not only inconvenienced me and my lack of sleep but also greatly angered and annoyed me. Tink tink tink brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr tink tink tink brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. For fifteen minutes it went on until I boiled over with rage and threw myself off of the springy mattress and onto my feet with a comical, lasting boing. I stomped out of my bleak bedroom and into the east corridor, passed the open chalky neighboring door, and into the living room. With annoyance in my steps, I was determined. I am not usually one to boil over, but for God’s sake, I could not be more exhausted. My bony body aches for sleep, and all I have is an uncomfortable, dusty mattress that springs when I move, with no bedsheets. The scene was miserable before, but after the noise began, it became completely insufferable, and I will take no more. The moment I entered the living room, I halted my angry stroll as I witnessed the culprit. I froze, utterly terrified. I had expected the noise to come from the stairwell of the flat building, or outside my door in the wide corridor, or downstairs in the entry, but I was sorely mistaken. The din was in my flat, in my living room, less than a few meters away from me. The noise wasn’t a what, it was a who, a short body with sleeved arms and rubber gloves and legs covered by an ankle-length black skirt and leather boots. The person, dressed in black, looked fairly normal until I looked up and met their face, or lack of a face, I should say. A large, horrifying grey gas mask covered the entire face; I could see no eyes, nose, lips or cheeks. All that appeared was two dark, gaping eye windows unable to see through with a long, stout, filter around the mouth area. The figure held a hammer and nails in one hand, which was likely the pinnacle of the cacophony. Clutched in the other hand was a grey circular device with neon characters unreadable from my stance. The character appeared exceedingly unhuman. My head feels faint, my blood clots in my veins, I sweat and turn pale. Who is this person? What business do they have in my home? Why are they dressed like that?! How did they get inside without me realising? How long have they been here? Why are they making such a racket late at night? Did they know I was here? I usually disregard my curious inquiries and get on my way but this was too significant to ignore. Unfortunately, I can’t speak and fight or flight takes over, yet again, human instincts prevail. I don’t ask questions or even stay to face the intruder, I skittishly turn around and swiftly slip my shoes on then dart out the door. At times I become quite cowardly, but I am not ashamed. I am tired and weak and unequipped to deal with whatever issue is presented by the short black figure in a gas mask and armed with metal supplies. Despite my questions I believed it was better that they were unanswered. The incorrigible claws of sleep were prying at my skull as I mindlessly wandered back to the only true home I have ever comfortably slept in. Maybe Prudence was right, I am just a child. I thought as I creakily opened the window of my childhood bedroom and hopped inside and collapsed onto my small, warm bed with bedsheets.