- Messages
- 752
- OOC First Name
- Claire
- Blood Status
- Half Blood
- Relationship Status
- Single
- Sexual Orientation
- Bisexual
- Age
- 11/2033 (29)
Arvel had finally done it. He'd finally moved out. Granted, his new flat consisted of two cupboard-sized rooms and cost him two-thirds of his paycheck each month, but it was his, and most importantly it was miles away from the little shack in the woods with his parents. When he looked out of his kitchen window, he saw people instead of birds, cars instead of trees. Traffic sounds drifted up from the street below like music. It couldn't have been more ideal.
And Arvel hated it. In his eagerness to leave he had not prepared himself for the crushing loneliness of independent living. With the window shut, the noise of the street became a distant hum, and in the quiet he grew more aware of the absence of many sounds: his father closing doors a little louder than necessary; his mother shouting up the stairs to tell him dinner was ready; the rattle of keys in the wooden bowl every time someone left or returned. Oddly, he even missed his father's reproofs. What would he do, now that there was nobody to tell him to stop wasting the weekends away and look for a proper career?
His mother had told him it was the perfect opportunity to find himself and discover what he really cared about. He held onto that, replaying the memory in his mind, letting hope flutter around in his chest like a spring butterfly. But hope couldn't change the fact he'd flunked his NEWTs. Even if he found his passion, who ever would hire him to do it for money?
He got up from the beanbag on which he had been lying for the last hour and looked around the room. He had unpacked the essentials but very little else. No amount of decorating was going to make this flat feel like his home, so he wasn't in any hurry to start. Instead, he pulled on a faded red jacket and left the building, descending the front steps to the street. Brightstone was only a short bus ride away, if you knew where to get off - and Arvel did. From there he walked the rest of the way into the village. It was a pleasant day, though clouds crowding in from the west suggested it wouldn't be for long. He picked up the pace and soon arrived at his destination: a dark oak door. Before he could give himself time to chicken out, he knocked.
And Arvel hated it. In his eagerness to leave he had not prepared himself for the crushing loneliness of independent living. With the window shut, the noise of the street became a distant hum, and in the quiet he grew more aware of the absence of many sounds: his father closing doors a little louder than necessary; his mother shouting up the stairs to tell him dinner was ready; the rattle of keys in the wooden bowl every time someone left or returned. Oddly, he even missed his father's reproofs. What would he do, now that there was nobody to tell him to stop wasting the weekends away and look for a proper career?
His mother had told him it was the perfect opportunity to find himself and discover what he really cared about. He held onto that, replaying the memory in his mind, letting hope flutter around in his chest like a spring butterfly. But hope couldn't change the fact he'd flunked his NEWTs. Even if he found his passion, who ever would hire him to do it for money?
He got up from the beanbag on which he had been lying for the last hour and looked around the room. He had unpacked the essentials but very little else. No amount of decorating was going to make this flat feel like his home, so he wasn't in any hurry to start. Instead, he pulled on a faded red jacket and left the building, descending the front steps to the street. Brightstone was only a short bus ride away, if you knew where to get off - and Arvel did. From there he walked the rest of the way into the village. It was a pleasant day, though clouds crowding in from the west suggested it wouldn't be for long. He picked up the pace and soon arrived at his destination: a dark oak door. Before he could give himself time to chicken out, he knocked.