RoomHates by Carmen Black (series like harry potter TXT) 📕

its lock. It’s a relief to snatch the keys out and lock the door behind me. I push my head against the cool wood a moment, breathing deep to try and restrain myself from fist fighting a guy who would definitely win, and then turn to take in my new home.

It’s furnished, barely. The walls are painted off-white and are scuffed almost everywhere that a leg can reach. There’s a long, wide piece of wood bolted to the wall, and above that several smaller planks bolted higher; these, presumably, represent my desk and bookshelves. The desk chair is missing one of its wheels; if I sit on it, I’ll basically fall off. The wardrobe is no better than some painted plywood screwed together, and will fit maybe half of my clothes if I folded them small. It has a dingy, fingerprint-covered mirror glued to one of its doors. The bed is a single and it’s covered in sheets that, when I brush my fingers over them, feel like they were made of recycled paper. There’s no bedside table; instead, there’s a mildewed windowsill just by the head of the bed, and a frosted-glass window above it that is maybe four inches high, but stretches from one side of the wall to the next.

There are no pillows. I did not pack any. I can foresee this being one of the many problems with living here.

I sigh and knead my temples, willing myself to calm down. It’ll be fine. Sure, it’s not exactly the nicest place in the world, it’s not those pretty dorm rooms you saw on the website or washi taped to your vision board, but you have keys that lock the door, and windows nobody can see into, and a bed you can sleep in. It’s yours.

Plus, you can always just drench the place in fairy lights and posters.

I put the suitcase on the bed and the bed sheets crinkle in a very un-fabric way. I put my backpack down next to it, crinkle, and put my arms above my head, relishing how my aching back is finally free of its load. As I stretch, I catch a glimpse of myself in the dingy mirror on the wardrobe.

I look tired. My eyes, green-grey depending on how the light catches them, have dark circles under them from the early start. I usually wear at least a little makeup, but today I had to get on a plane, so nothing on earth sounded worse than makeup. As a result, the freckles that are usually hidden by foundation are dusting my cheeks; it’s almost like looking at a stranger. My hair is unusual for me too; long, blonde and thick, it’s one of the few things I take pride in. I usually have it curled and carefully styled, but today necessitated a fishtail braid just to keep it out of my face. I didn’t really succeed at that; little strands have escaped and they’re falling flat against my forehead. I blow them out of my face, staring at mirror-me, and they flop right back. Unbelievable. I sigh, shrug my shoulders up and down to loosen them up from all the backpack wearing, and unpack.

It’s going to be too much for that lame excuse of a desk. My lenses, DSLRs, analogue cameras, the film canisters, the memory cards, the huge foam cases they all live in, and my (honestly unnecessary) darkroom kit would already be stretching the desk’s capacity. Add all the other art supplies, from the sketchbooks to the oils, and the thing’s going to pop right out of the wall. That’s leaving aside notebooks, planners, pens, post-it notes…. and where am I going to put makeup? I have maybe half of the space I need. I pile all the stationery and a few sketchbooks on the left side of the desk, the makeup on the right, and it creaks ominously but doesn’t fall.  I pull all the clothes out of the suitcase, put all the arty stuff apart from my favorite camera back in there, and tuck the suitcase under the bed. That’ll do for the first week or so.

My favorite camera, a beautiful Retinette built in an era that made film cameras unbreakable, goes right back in my backpack, and the backpack goes on a hook on the bedroom door. I assess the clothes, give up, stuff them all on the floor of the wardrobe, and wedge the door shut with some of my shoes.  That’ll do for at least the first semester.

I take stock of the room. I need pillows, mostly. Good sheets. Maybe some posters, to cover the walls. Fairy lights, because I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to have those in college.

I wrinkle my nose. And some scented candles, or a diffuser or something. I can smell those nasty corridor shoes from behind the door.

I pull out my phone and check my bank account. With my deposit and first two months of rent paid, plus the plane tickets, and a trip to the airport sandwich place that was absolutely not necessary at all, the money that’s left isn’t going to stretch for all of what I want. I can start with some pillows and bed sheets, and also maybe some food.

I need a job, I think miserably. I’d made an informal clientele for wedding and party photography at home that had been pretty lucrative, but home was now hundreds of miles away and this was a town full of students that didn’t have the money to spend on photography they didn’t need.

I should probably find a store that sells what I need before they all shut for the evening, but I’m parched and my water bottle is long since empty. I take the risk: I unlock my bedroom door and go further down the corridor to the apartment kitchen.

It’s filthy. If I didn’t think three guys lived here before, I definitely do now. There’s already a mound of dirty dishes, despite the semester only starting tomorrow. There