...
My light, naked eyelashes untangled from each other, forcing my soft eyelids to pry open. I could still taste bits of spicy, orange chicken in between my uneven teeth from last night's dinner. The sour taste made me want to stick a finger down my throat, and hover my plump body over a white, murky toilet. I should be thankful that I could still taste the bits of dinner left over, because of the fact that my stomach rejects mostly everything; even before it can slide its way down my throat. It's even more of a battle when grey, watery tuna straight from the circular tin can, blankly stares at me as I struggle the urge to vomit.
The square, black clock flashed 6:41. First period with Mr. Klanvent started at 7:25. I let out a deep, warm breath and leaned my head back when I felt a tear building up in the corner of my eye. I batted my sensitive eyelids only once, to make the heated water-drop evaporate into a damp puddle, and end in the dark bags under my red eyes. This made my eyes sting, which made me want to build the tear back up again, and again, and again; until a pouring storm dripped from my crystal blue eyes.
I untangled my legs from the thin orange sheet, and planted my feet one by one onto the dirt stained, cream carpet that padded up the floor of my bedroom. One foot landed on the lavender scarf that my grandma had knitted for me. Even thought I had seen a scarf identical at the Walmart near her nursing home, I always kept it as a simple laugh in my head. The scarf was soft and gentle, just like her precious touch. Yet it always gave me splotchy, red rashes along the side of my neck, every time I would wear it. I easily spotted a pair of grass stained jeans, just barely hiding under my bed. They had massive holds slit on both knees; I gravitated towards a liking for them that way. They barely fit at the waist, and my stomach always would stick over the top like a perfect vanilla cupcake with an immense amount of fatty frosting. But since my mom hadn't washed them for almost two weeks, they gave me just enough room for me to place the round button into the cut out loop hole, and then fasten the tiny zipper slightly all the way up. After that, I tried to search for the soft ballerina, pink v-neck. I located it underneath three different colored socks, and an old violet sweater; which I happened to usually wear with the lavender scarf. I lifted the shirt up and placed the pink balled up mess under my nose, while searching for a foul scent. Even though nothing really startled me, I sprayed about a fifth of a bottle of cheap perfume into the pick fabric. Finally I came to a decision to leave my ratted, brown curls alone for today.
With wasting pointless minuets on getting my body clothed, I gave myself minimal time to slap black and tan facial products across my pale, sensitive face. While staring in the mirror for less than a half of a minuet, my eyes were immediately drawn to the zit above my left, furry eyebrow that had gotten bigger ever since I squeezed the white and yellow puss out form it last night. The mirror still reflected the smudge mark where I smeared the yellow puss onto the white toilet paper. The zit looked like a big, red tomato ready to be picked and sold to make chunky, spicy salsa. There was only a tiny amount of tan goop left in the bottle, which I had to salvage in order to cover the monstrous beast. After my amateur attempt to contour the tomato patch on my face, I dipped a prickly brush in and out of a thin tube consisting of a black, creamy gel that I painted onto my sick straight eyelashes. Most of it disappeared by the end of the day, and reappears under the same dark, baggy eyes where my warm tears occasionally lived.
...
Ben sat at the oval shaped table, in the chair closest to the back, screen door. He was using the multi-colored fifty states placemat, that usually covered the large black sharpie embellishment on the far right of the light wood table. I was surprised to see him awake this early. He starts school and hour later than I do; but to see how late I assembled myself, I wasn't sure why I was surprised. He is 12, and has mild autism. His Mickey Mouse Club House bowl was filled to the brim with soggy fruit loops, combined with sweet, crisp honey nut cherrios. Milk splashed out of the bowl, and splattered onto Kentucky and West Virginia. Each time he would bring the silver spoon up to enter his mouht, his small lips would slurp the white liquid. This repeated action made me want to take the milk indulged bowl, and dump it onto is small frail head; which would cause the milk to splash across all of North America.
Mom came down from upstaris, and when she entered the kitchen, the point of her black stilettos struck the hard, wood floor and made a 'clink clank' noise each step she took. As she passed by the chair I was slouched in, my eyes were drawn to the narrow snag on her sheer, black panty hose. The snag began its route three inches above her left knee, and trailed far up, until it vanished underneath her skirt. She looked somewhat elegant, with her long navy blue skirt, and white buttoned down blouose. Yet she still managed to overlook the coffee stain on her left hand sleeve. Her wardrobe was never fit to perfection; and she didn't mind.
She picked up ringing phones, and checked in those who walked in with actual insurance, at Laura's Eye Care only twenty five minuets from our house. Every morning she asked me what I want for breakfast, and I almost never replied back. But we both new I raided the pantry every morning before she could catch me in the act. Once collecting my goods, I transferred half of my findings into my backpack, and the other half into the junk drawer next to my bed.
I went over to the table, picked up my graffitied backpack, swung it over my left shoulder, and slugged to the front door. The bag was light, but too small for my torso; even with the straps almost fully lengthened. When I got to the front door, I slipped on my dusty yellow flip flops, and left without a word.
The summer breeze entered in through the holes of my jeans, as I walked to the corner of the bus stop. As I was three large sidewalk panels away from the corner, my right flip flop strap popped; and I took a straight tumble forward. Nobody saw me, and probably no one really cared to look my direction. It was a rough journey to get back onto my feet without falling back down in the process. Once I go back to stable ground, I just kept walking with one dusty flip flop slapping at the sole of my foot, and the other clutched in the palm of my hand.
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