A complicated summer holiday with a useless dad, boredom and feelings about a boy whose she's not supposed to have anyway.
"I know, sometimes he's so mean, it wants to make me cry too."
I didn't notice Marco approach. Trust him to do exactly what I didn't want him to. My relationship with my dad's girlfriend's fifteen year old son was comlicated enough, without him seeing me cry too.
"But it's OK, I mean-"
"Marco! Shut up! I'm not crying! I'm cursing him into oblivion!"
I stormed out of the tent, almost falling down again as I myself up off pushed the air mattress, and marched into the house.
As I stepped into the lounge, it occured to me that I'd gone to the tents in the garden to get away from everything and everyone. And running into the house was doing the opposite of that.
I hoped that my run up the stairs wasn't too noisy, as I fled up to the attic. In general, I hated the attic, but I'd been up here yesterday, with Kathryn. It wasn't as hot as it had been downstairs, and for that I was grateful.
And for the first time ever, I was also grateful that my dad, and his obssession with building and DIY, had chosen this house. At home, I lived in a normal three-storey townhouse.My dad's place however, was nothing like that.
It was a 200 year old farmhouse. The sort that was built for about a billion people. And it hadn't been modernised completely yet. Of the dozen or more bedrooms, only about five had electricity. I would only even consider sleeping in two of them. About half the house, the old shop, workshop and the rooms above them, plus the attic, didn't have electricty or proper insulation.
Luckily, one toilet was a completely renovated bathroom, and the kitchen was at the dishwasher, hob and fridge-freezer level. But the thing about the house was that everything was so mismatched. Not even the walls, height of the rooms or size of the windows were the same. Best not to mention the actual funishings. But then again, since when did a man know anything about furnishings?
As I haunted the attic, I tried not to thing about what had just happened, and just let everything escape my mind. I just walked about the few rooms, with roof tiles for roofing, and dust and planks for floor. It was funny really. There was double glazing in places, victorian toys, old pictures...
Dust shifted, as I paced. But studying the room wasn't enough to keep my busy head at bay. I tried focusing on something that wouldn't cause me to stamp and screaming frustration. So I had to settle for something that would just make me guilty. Marco.
I did feel sorry for having yelled at him, but I was so angry and annoyed, partly at him as well, that I needed to snap. He was just so not in tune with what I felt that I really needed to just once, in some way or another tell him to back off.
"Kids! Dinner's ready!" Somewhere far below Anita's voice disturbed my meditations and I figured it was time to leave my exile...