Wincing against the wind, I zipped up my coat as far
as it would go and reached into the deep pockets. The fingers of my right hand
wrapped around my trusty mobile phone, which I slid out. Quick swipe across the
screen and a number tapped in, and I had everything at my fingertips.
Two missed calls, four text messages. Another few taps
and I knew that my mother had tried calling me once, my father once, and the
four messages were from my friend Zaz. I sighed, switched off my phone, and put
it back in my pocket. I replaced it with a small scrap of pink lined paper
screwed up in the depths of my pocket. I unwrapped it and squinted at the
messily scrawled address as I walked.
No. 6 College
Street, Tywyllwch,
I managed to make out.
I glanced upwards. I was on a row of three storey
houses, each with their own small front garden. They were pleasant enough
houses, and I was currently stood outside number 4. Dragging my feet, I
continued to the next house. Number 6.
This was my new home for the year, in the small, rural
town of Tywyllwch
in mid-Wales. I was a fresher at the town’s university, Tywyllwch’s only claim
to fame. And it wasn’t a bad house, either – maybe a little scruffier than the
two sat on either side of it, and the windows were empty, the curtains closed,
but the garden was neatly kept and the paint on the gate wasn’t peeling.
I lifted the latch on the gate. It squawked as I
pushed it open and stepped into the garden.
Before I could start walking, the front door opened. A
girl stepped out. “Well, yeah, fuck off, Harry,” she snapped into her mobile
phone. She was tiny, this girl, probably not even five feet, but she packed a
lot of curve into her short frame. Her hair was dark, to her shoulders, and her
face was screwed up in anger. There was a cigarette, unlit, hanging from
between her lips.
“It’s not my problem you’re being an absolute wanker,
though, is it?” she carried on, voice harsh. She nodded at me, left the door
wide open, and rooted in the pocket of her cardigan. She pulled out a neon-pink
lighter. “When you’re being like this, I can’t fucking talk to you. Tell you
what, grow the fuck up and give me a call when the weed is out of your system,
yeah?”
Then she hung up and slid her phone into her pocket,
lit her cigarette. Narrowed her eyes at me.
“Hey,” she said, not too welcoming. “You renting
here?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I haven’t got a key, though.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “The landlord let me in
before. He left them all. You’ve met him, right? I’m Nicki, by the way.”
“Axie,” I said. “Shall I just go in?”
ehhhhh something i've been working on. hmmmmmm
Lyrics: last words / the real tuesday weld
