I Don't Belong Here

✦Any Normal Day✦

My eyes flutter open at the sound of my incessant alarm. Why the hell did I set my alarm to that nightmare-inducing ringing? Reluctantly climbing out of bed, my joints crack at the movements. The popping in my neck, shoulders and spine slowly awake the life within me.

I got to go to fucking work. Then I got a class at 2:00. Then 4:00. Then I have a study group at 6:00. At least the range doesn't close until 10:00 tonight so I can shoot a bit before going back to bed.

I quickly shower so my hair is not a greasy rat's nest, apply some concealer and mascara so I don't look like death itself, then slug my way to the kitchen. Turning on the old-fashioned radio my grandpa fixed up for me, I flick to the morning news while making a coffee. 

My mother died when I was 7, leaving me with nothing but her angel pendant necklace, so her parents raised me until they died only a few years ago. It's just me left in my family since my mother didn't have any siblings and I never really knew my dad. If I do have any other family then I have no idea who they are. 

The newscaster's voice informs me of traffic conditions, weather warnings, and some random political shit I do not care about. She did mention that a dude saved a dog from drowning yesterday, so that is good news. 

I slowly sip my hot bean juice, revelling in the artificial energy, as I whip up a few scrambled eggs. I don't know how I would survive without coffee. The drink is magical, honestly. I can already feel my body starting to properly function again. 

Flipping off the radio, finishing my coffee and scarfing down my eggs, I lock the door and head down to the street. Right before I leave, I grab my grandpa's leather satchel. He is my mom's dad so his last name, Morrison, is embroidered in the leather. My birth surname is L/n but here in town they all just call me Morrison. My dad abandoned us when I was 5 so I honestly prefer Morrison over L/n.

Like my grandpa fixed up the old radio, he also fixed me his old 1960 Velocette Venom motorbike. I love the thing. 

After about ten minutes of zipping between cars on the worn-out Revelstoke, British Columbia roads, I arrive at my workplace. I enter through the backdoor of the small cafe, ready for a rough four-hour shift. I throw on my apron, grab my notepad and tray and head out to the already packed cafe.

I approach my first table.

"Oh, that deer barely slipped!" I hear one of the men tell the other. "When I pulled the string back it clicked and alerted him. Damn thing."

"What kind of bow do you have?" The other asks, curiously. 

The first man pulls out his phone. "SAS Scorpii Compound," he answers, showing a picture of the bow I assume. "Got it two years ago."

"Hello, gentlemen. Welcome to the Bear's Den," I greet, interrupting their conversation. "What can I get for you?"

"Hello, Miss Morrison," the first man smiles. See? They all me Morrison here. I'm well known here since this small town is where my grandparents grew up. Everyone here knows about them, especially my grandpa. He was a notorious hunter and mechanic in town. "Could we get two do double-doubles, an eggs benedict and a steak and eggs?"

"Coming right up, sir," I smile. I turn to leave but pause for a moment. "By the way, to stop the clicking you should try tightening the drawback pulleys. That or it just needs a little oil." 

The men smile at me. "Just like your grandfather, you are," they compliment.

I nod in thanks and walk to the back for their orders. 

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The morning continues like this. People telling hunting and fishing stories, a few railroad stories, a couple of dam jokes - those never get old. One little girl said she saw two black bears up on the mountain trail. I gave her a free donut for being a brave girl.