Sullivan Fox hated light wash wood. The way the sun hit it made him feel sick, so of course, the house he sat in now was completely furnished in it. The living room table was, so he let his coffee cup stain it without feeling any regret. There was an alternative, but that included leaving the room and rummaging around to find the coasters in one of the opened but further untouched boxes that were still sitting in the hall, and that was far below the last bullet point on his list of priorities. The blinds were up, and the sun was almost unpleasantly bright, on the verge of synthetic, and the need to squint his eyes every time he looked in the wrong direction was disrupting his Zen. Finding himself here had not been entirely his choice, but it was the best he could do with such a short amount of time. He had brought the house for two reasons only,
It was off the main street and hidden behind a collection of other houses, meaning no street noise and no people knocking at his door trying to sell him girl guide biscuits or authentic Chinese massages.
It had enough room for him to store all his boxes before he got tired of this house and and moved again.
That was it; and now he was beginning to wonder whether the extensive amount of closet space was worth the pale wood and sickeningly large amount of natural light, so fierce he was convinced that he was getting a sunburn just sitting here. His last house had been ten times easier to work in, and had functioning curtains, but his neighbour kept on dropping off lasagne at his front door every Thursday. The next owner of that house would have fun cleaning out the freezer where he had stockpiled the whole lot of it for three months. After all, he dedicated his life to only one thing, his work, and anything else could wait until he was ready for it. He doubted that it would be any time soon. It was a tiring process becoming the person that he was now, unbecoming was harder than it seemed, and detaching yourself was even harder. At least now the phone calls had stopped, but one thing that was beyond his control was human nature, and that was to nurture. Nobody seemed to care whether or not they needed it. Helping people seems to make them feel good about themselves, and in their eyes he was a man who needed all the help he could get. Sadly all this got him was two dozen styrofoam trays of lasagne and a rather remarkable collection of not so kind titles. Mr Fox, the neighbourhood hermit. The villain in every sitcom ever made. The mysterious yet desirable man who emerges only to seduce shop assistants and collect his laundry every Sunday morning. He couldn’t bring himself to care. Not about the titles, not about anything; he cared about the words. The one thing that he was unconditionally in control of. The whole world was already at the mercy of words, so what was there left to be? He really did hate this house, it was making him ramble. Probably something to do with the light wash induced nausea he was feeling; so bad he almost considered going out to buy some wood stain just to save himself from the creative intervention. Almost.