Spitfire Words

I don’t think I could live alone again.

I first moved out on my 18th. The deposit on my flat was my birthday present, and I was so excited. No more sharing bathrooms or space. No more noise. Just me.

My little corner shop job just paid the rent and bills, with enough left for basic food. I stayed home most weekends.

It was a beautiful flat. A big old house portioned off into modernised apartments with original features and big windows. The fireplace was my favourite, though it was ornamental, chimney capped off and central heating installed to replace it. Beautiful mantle piece. I stuck scented candles in the hearth. Went through them pretty quickly to cover up the smell. Like lilies. I gave up putting any ornaments on the mantle after the fourth little angel fell off and broke.

The best thing I brought to that flat was my television. Only a small, cheap thing. Only got the basic channels. I left it on most of the time when I was home. The sounds of the voices soothed me, I’d turn it up loud to cover the other voices.

I suppose I never really did live alone.