Three cardboard boxes stare at me from across the room, daring me to unpack them. This room is at least twice as big as the one I used to share with Martin back in Celadon Bay. It looks mostly empty, and I prefer it that way. It suits the emptiness in my heart, somehow. Plus, making this room more homely feels like admitting to the fact that I'm living in fucking Maple Heights, and I rather die before that ever happens.

My cellphone buzzes in my pocket, startling me.

How's life in hell, bitch? I'll call you later.

I told Martin I wouldn't be replying anything from him, or anyone from Celadon Bay for that matter, at least for a while, but I guess it makes sense that he's still trying to contact me anyway. My cousin never listened to a damned thing I ever said.

I'm smarter than him, though. I turn off the phone and toss it over the bed before leaving the room: I need to remember the only reason why I actually want to make this room into a Safe Haven.

Halfway down the stairs, I hear Mom arguing with Grandma Enedith. I freeze in place, trying to figure out where the voices come from, and I narrow them down to the kitchen. I sit there, allowing their thick, foul mood to fill me.

Some people say sad hearts seek sad environments, mostly out of their sheer need for empathy. That's why I stopped listening to the upbeat songs in my music folder. Now things like Guns n' Roses' 'November Rain' fill my silent nights, replacing day-review times with my cousin, because silence suddenly feels overwhelming, and there's a lot of silence going on in this town. Except when Grandma is awake.

"Add more salt!" Grandma's wavy voice brings me back to my staircase.

"Mom, please. You know you can't eat too salty."

"Your food tastes like mud because you don't spice it enough."

"Like mud? I'll serve you an actual plate of mud so you can tell the difference."

One thing I discovered after moving here is that Mom is fun when she loses her temper with someone that isn't me.

"If this is what you moved here for, then congratulations. You successfully managed to ruin my very peaceful life, thank you very much."

I expect my mom to backlash with a snarky retort, but it doesn't come. Instead, silence takes over the house again. Even though there's a huge willow right next to the house, birds don't venture nearby. They probably hate Grandma as much as I do. The thought makes me chuckle lightly. And just like that, Grandma brings me again back inside, now screaming in horror at the end of the stairs.

"What in blazes, you wretched kid?! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?! Announce yourself at least!"

"Oh, Grandma. You okay?"

"Of course I'm not okay, you young creep!" she cries, placing a palm flat on her chest and drawing a deep breath. "You scared the hell out of me, as usual!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"You always say the same, then you surprise me around a corner with that shady silent attitude of yours!"

"I probably should wear a bell tied to my neck."

"Silence! Do not address me unless prompted."

So should I announce myself or keep silent? I don't think Grandma herself knows the answer to this pressing matter. I motion my hand through my mouth as if zipping it close, which somehow enrages her even more.

"Goddamned kid. If you were my son I'd teach you some manners. You're a disgrace to my life! Begone with you!"

But instead, she's the one who leaves, disappearing through the door right in front of the stairs. I'm tempted to lock that door and let her rot in that room forever, but Mom is walking out the kitchen, looking for me. She also gets startled when she sees me sitting here.

"I hate to say this, but she might have a point." She tries a smile, which doesn't reach me.

"I'm sorry. I'll go back to my room now." I clutch the railing to help myself to my feet, ready to leave. The room I hate, aka Safe Haven, see?

"John, wait." I now lean on the railway, looking down at her. "I know I keep saying this, but be patient with her, will you?"

I tell her to fuck off and leave me alone, except it comes out as "Yes, Mom."

It's a good thing that words betray me like this.

"She doesn't mean it, I promise you." My face probably gives away my thoughts, because she adds: "She needs to get used to seeing you around, that's all."

"It's okay." I tune up my even voice with a meaningless smile. "She hates me just as much as I hate her anyway, so we're even."

"I'm so sorry, honey."

"You should be. This is your fault, after all," I say, now walking upstairs to my room, unsure if I said that last bit out loud, hoping I did, and strangely, that I didn't.