𝗳𝗮𝘆𝗲 𝘀𝗶𝗺𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘀
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the start of the summer of 2022, derry, ireland.
faye: #5B94C8 aisling: #8f6727
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─────Whirring from a slightly broken fan sounded quietly throughout the small room, its blades spinning as quick as possible to avoid being slapped again by it's increasingly agitated owner. Popcorn textured drywall lined the space, completely bare except for a large vintage poster of a variety of flowers blu-tacked precariously onto one wall, the top right hand corner peeling away from age. The picture had been a gift from her father for her eighth- no, was it the ninth? Maybe it was the seventh- birthday. He said he'd picked it out especially for her, but the very prominent price tag of The Range on the back and a messy newspaper and adhesive tape combo of wrapping clearly showed that he'd just picked it up on the way home the day before. Birthdays like that weren't rare here. The girl had been surprised that he'd even showed up, or got her a present.

The bed in the corner was worse for wear, pine wood stained with low quality polish and an even more low quality mattress, all topped with a patterned grey gingham duvet, the singular pillow at the top of the bed covered in the same. It took up an entire wall of the room even in its small size. The remaining space was filled with one of those heavy duty clothes rails, although meant to look aesthetic with the bold and pastel colours of the girl's wardrobe, just showed how little storage the room allowed. The sliver of space on the nylon carpet housed two separate copies of Pride and Prejudice, both in separate states of disarray. One was filled with sticky page markers, each with little scribbles on in blue pen, whilst the other was completely ripped up, pages flung across the carpet like the remnants of a crime scene. A sole drawer bedside table made of the same pine wood as its partner sat beside the headboard, packed with the remainder of the girl's isolation. Four different mugs, each filled with differing amounts of tea or apple juice, stood in a circle on the table, almost certain to leave ring marks. A collection of empty packets of food littered the space where the mugs didn't.

Every so often, when life (barely) got a bit too much, the girl would regress into something she liked to call 'room quarantine'. The time she would spend in her bedroom would vary, sometimes only a day, or sometimes spanning weeks on end. It felt like solitary confinement, given to her by her, for which no crime had been committed, except living, of course. There was a strange grace period after these isolations when the girl would, in an astonishing lack of discernment, realise she could enter normal life again. The room would be cleaned and she would continue to go about her life in the remaining areas of the house.

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Lying on her back on the gingham duvet, Faye let out a long sigh. She'd been lying there for about two hours, just staring at the plain ceiling above her, in some sort of trance, breathing normally and everything, but just not thinking. She couldn't, wouldn't become prone to what lay in her thoughts. The tattered remains of hundreds of ripped up pages across the floor were just one example of what happened when her impulsive traits overpowered her control, and she didn't want to have to get yet another copy of the book.

She had been wearing the same clothes for days, and she hadn't even noticed: a simple, flared, baby blue loungewear set. It was like she'd forgotten about the piles of garments strewn on the washing machine in the kitchen, but that meant she'd have to open the door and brave the house.

Ugh. She was running out of snacks, anyway.

Getting up from bed wasn't usually this hard, taking her almost two minutes to bring herself to sit up, blinking slowly. She pulled at her face and let out another groan, moving over and standing up, her socked feet almost slipping on a pile of pages, mumbling an expletive under her tongue. It only took three steps to get to the door from her bed, squeaking loudly as it opened, alerting her presence. Her mother hadn't been bothered to try to fix it herself, nor call the council to fix it for her so, like most things in the house, it remained broken and waiting to be fixed.

"Oh, look who finally decides to grace us with her presence."

Aisling Simmons' voice, laced with sarcasm and exasperation, sounded out from the living room. Faye didn't respond, silently padding through the corridor and into the kitchen, not bothering to look through the half wall into the living room as she opened the fridge. Half empty. She picked up the milk bottle, pulling a face. Really empty. Placing the bottle on the tabletop, she potted over to the kettle and began to fill it in silence, blinking slowly.

"I'm talking to you, Faye. It's not polite to ignore your mother."

Sometimes Faye wondered why her mother had even thought about taking a teacher training course, as it was obvious that she didn't even care for her own daughter, let alone students. Yet again, she didn't reply, continuing to make her tea. They were running out of teabags, too. Possibly due to the collection of forgotten mugs by her bedside.

"Harry- Dad says he'll be away until next week. Two weeks at a push."

The girl stood still, eyes fixated on the brewing mug of tea, watching as the water turned brown as if it was a revolutionary find. It felt like watching fucking paint dry.

"What a surprise"

Her nose scrunched up, lips curling as she poured an ungodly amount of sugar into the tea, almost finishing the bag. She loudly opened the cutlery draw, picking up a spoon and slamming it shut again, using the spoon to dump the teabag into the overflowing bin.

"Don't be like that, Faye."

There was a pause as Faye took a sip of tea, hands clutching the mug with much more force than necessary.

"You haven't done any work this week, either. You've just been holed up in that room of yours again."

Faye finally looked up through the divide to see her mother lying across the sofa, watching October reruns of quiz shows. She didn't show it, but she was secretly a bit disappointed that her mother was watching the show without her. The woman was dressed, but her flannel shirt was tousled and she wasn't wearing socks, her feet curled under her a ratty old sofa cushion. Like her daughter, she too held a mug of tea, gone cold. An empty can stood on the end table next to where she lay.

"Don't need to. Why aren't you at work? It's Wednesday."

Aisling's eyes deviated from the screen to her daughter, eyebrows low in confusion.

"Faye, it's Sunday. You know House of Games is only on every Sunday."

Lie. It was also on on Mondays, but those were only the new episodes. Faye's eyes were fixed on the screen, and she only let out a small 'hm' of understanding as she watched Ingrid Oliver give her answer. She was much more interested in the contestant's lips than the fact that she'd completely lost track of the week.

"You need to do your work-"

"No, like you said. It's Sunday."

She cut off her mother without any thought, looking away from Ingrid to raid the kitchen cupboards. Her voice was snappier now, getting increasingly prone to losing her (extremely short, it seemed) temper. In a balancing act, Faye reached for a packet of prawn cocktail crisps with one hand whilst holding her tea in the other.

"You do realise you don't need to do your shitty little home schooling on me anymore, Ma? I go to Hogwarts now. Much better than whatever you could have done."

"Faye Simmons, watch your tone of voice! You're my daughter, and I won't have you talking like that! What would you father think?"

"He probably wouldn't give a shit! Why should he? He's the one who's never around!"

"Don't say that, Faye! What about me, hm? I'm here for you!"

Un-fucking-fortunately!" She screamed, moving in quick strides over to her bedroom door and slamming it shut with such force the wall shook. The crisps still lay on the tabletop in the kitchen.

The sound of ceramic being thrown and smashed echoed out through the shut door ten minutes later.

What did she say about becoming prone to her thoughts?

Ah, Summer Holidays of 2022, you're going to be a blast.

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