She’d been sat in that dark room for hours,
the streetlights creeping in through
the blinds
like ants.
It would not be the first time 
she would spend an evening alone,
the echoes were quieter that way.
Reflections of a loud 
and jarring 
energy from her P.E teacher 
who was adamant on using 
the school’s megaphone
at a constant rate.
‘The weakest are always the loudest’
her Mum would say.
Why then did she always flock
to the class clown, the brash,
the cocky, the arrogant, the overly
self-assured?
Was she predisposed to like 
weak men?
Her father wasn’t weak.
If he was
	he certainly didn’t show it.
He was a quiet man
	after all.
The corners of his armchair
slightly worn away,
inanimate objects
playing audience,
	the orchestra his fingers
reciting any complex emotion
onto the paisley embossed
print of the chair cover.
You could often tell a lot about
a family by 
	not what they owned 
but 
	by the condition of what they owned.
As a young girl she’d 
speak her mind
	when noticing the small details
	etched into the objects 
in her friend’s houses.
No wonder she stopped
getting invited over.
Every time she did 
that
family would end up arguing.
	She always thought
	that she had been 
cursed with the power of
being overly observant.
It had brought nothing good
to her life.
She wished she could choose
when to notice things like
everyone else.
However that wasn’t the case.
So she sat there,
	in that dark room,
	giving her mind a much needed 
	break whilst her eyes were adjusting 
to the light,
or lack thereof.
It would only be minutes before
the details encased within
would whisper their secrets 
into her ear
yet
again.