She stepped inside and flicked the switch on the wall. It was illuminating everything with a stark glow. A tiny sound enters her left ear. It came from the ground. Maybe the wall?
“Same to you. See you soon.”
The greyness of the outside was gone for the moment. The first space in her apartment was a walkway leading off to closed sets of doors. It could feel almost claustrophobic at first sight, sealed in this passage with only one way to go.
Charlotte closed herself in, bolting the door and dropping her keys and other miscellaneous pocket pieces onto an old wooden counter. The clatter muffled any odd sounds she did or did not hear. The only other furnishing to note on this surface was a spider plant. It was clinging on for dear life by the look of the long droopy leaves.
“Must remember to water that,” she told herself with only a sliver of confidence that she would complete the task.
Further down the passage we go, the first door to be opened led to her kitchen.
As far as kitchens go, this one was pretty decent. It was instead diminutive in size, which didn’t bode well for Charlotte most of the time. Thankfully, there had only been a few spills and not-quite accidents so far. The faint tomato-red stains in the grout were a reminder of this.
It had all the essentials and a few luxuries. An oven, a hob, a microwave and a clock. A fridge, come freezer and even a stool. The stool had never been used.
Who uses these stools? Are they meant to be there to push the class level of a kitchen up. Make it feel like you're dining in the proper way. It's better than a table and chairs considering this space. Still. A touch ridiculous.
All she wanted for the moment was a glass of water. All the equipment acquired, tap fired off like a jet stream, she’s set.
She swore she heard that sound again as she left and went for another door. Like a scratching? No, a scuffling? With a shake of the head and a slight thought of insanity, she continued. Another room, this time the bedroom. There’s a lot more to this space; it’s been shaped by a chaotic & artistic mind.
The walls, although white, were plastered with posters and prints from various segments of pop culture. Filament lights and lamps dangled and struck from the ceiling and the floor, casting a warm orange glow. The bed was partially made; it had sheets and pillows that did not come from a set. They clashed and chimed together in a way you accepted but may not love. Charlotte didn’t love them, but they worked for her, and there’s only so much effort you can put into designing a space you don’t fully want to be in anyway.
Clothes, shoes, hats, socks and underwear were scattered around the floor. All are either ready to be worn or need an all-important wash. Unimportant. All unimportant. The main thing to note here was the desk in the corner. Unlike the one found at Charlotte’s college, this one looked antique. It felt antique and even had a smell that made you want to sit in front of it and just write, paint, or study.
To note. This was not an antique, it was just made to be like that. Who cares though right, it works and it gives you that feeling. Charlotte needs that, we all need that sort of feeling, right?
Atop the fake-tique desk were sketchbooks and all manner of artistry supplies.
Charlotte launched her bag to her bed; it bounced and settled much more gracefully than you’d expect. Next came her blazer, which adorned its rightful place on the floor, right next to her other blazer. The blazer-pile. She sat at her desk, placed the water down and started to think.
Most of her work outside college was freelance illustration, pet portraits, etc. She made enough from it to keep herself going. It wasn’t what she wanted, though. She wasn’t really sure what she wanted out of what she was doing now, not anymore.
When she was younger, like making friends, her goals in life felt much simpler and more manageable. Being an artist was always up there on the list. You could make all the colours and shapes if you applied time to them. There had been one thing that she couldn’t forget, mainly because it had become her family’s pet name for her since its inception.
Little Mouse. A character she made when she was around 9 or 10. Cute button nose covered in whiskers and big bright eyes only dwarfed by big satellite ears. From what she remembers, it looked more like a degu, but it was definitely a mouse. This little mouse went on so many adventures. She could only remember one or two now. The little mouse would go climbing mountains made from trimmings in the garden, planting a flag made up of a stick and leaves. It would only sometimes go well. In that same story, the little mouse would fall all the way to the bottom, with complete shock and fear all around. But wait, it’s just made from trimmings. The little mouse was okay.
From there, Charlotte thought she could do the same and be the same as that little hero she created. Reality doesn’t quite work like that.
“Oh well, I still have ideas. I can still create. I can still think of stories now that could rival my childish self.” she thought.
With that sudden surge of confidence, she began. Scribbling away, sketching in a craze. Things didn’t seem proper, so she cleared the space; the painting paper was out now. Pots of pigment opened and poured out. She was concentrated. She was in her zone.
Now this continued for a while. You know how things go when you really get the itch to do something and you just have to go for it. That's this, sometimes great things come from this sort of energy and passion. Sometimes you just burn out. I know I've felt that, you probably have to.
The little mouse ran across her vision. Its little tapping feet flicked past each other as it ran directly across the watercolour bridge. Everything was so bright, so brilliant and white all around the mouse. It looks like it’s beaming. It probably is, if you can discern that. At the very least, it feels like it’s happy.
The running stopped. The mouse was growing tired. As its run fell to a walk and then slumped into an orb of sitting, its head turned towards Charlotte. It still smiled, again, as much as you can tell. It was getting closer. Its face grew larger and larger. Finers details of its fur were visible now, completely engulfing Charlotte’s sight. As her vision grew narrower, all Charlotte could see was the gleaming black of this mouse’s eye. She kept falling into it until all she could see was dark.
A little scratch. Awake. Paint & paper was all she could see.
Another little scratch.