Predator

 

Monday’s were never a favourite day of mine, not that anyone would particularly favour Monday. The day always begins with a false hope. In the half-consciousness of waking, the thought never fails to enter my mind; thank goodness it’s Sunday.  The sheer disappointment upon discovering the day is actually Monday is beyond words. Yes, I hate Mondays. This morning is no different.

I can hear Dad stirring downstairs, most likely about to make his way up to wake me. The alarm went off again without me hearing it, typical. I always fail to hear it, maybe it isn’t loud enough. I make a mental note to buy a louder alarm clock and heave myself into a sitting position, which takes a great amount of will power. The grey light sifts through the blinds. It’s one of those overcast mornings, the ones that make you want to crawl under the sheets and sleep in for the day. Mondays never fail to be miserable. 

“Gracie!” Dad calls, in his loud, but not too loud voice.

“Yeah, Dad... I’m awake!” I respond, less than enthusiastically.

I make my way downstairs, and into the warm, delicious smelling kitchen. Dad has prepared a lovely breakfast, complete with a vase full of fragrant flowers. 

“Wow,” I say, in a very impressed tone of voice, “You really put in a lot of effort today, Dad.”

He smiles from ear to ear, clearly proud of himself.

“Not too bad for an old guy, huh?” He laughs.

Dad tries his very best to fill Mum’s roles. After her sudden death a few months ago, he was thrown into the deep end. No matter how much he tries to take the pressure off me, I still do majority of the work around the home. I never let Dad know of it though; he’s too well-intentioned to be brought down like that. Mum was one of those people that did heaps of things around the home, and did it so effortlessly that it seemed almost easy; but it wasn’t easy. I found that out the hard way.

After I’ve eaten enough food to feed a crowd, I say my goodbyes to Dad and leave for school. If there is anything good about Monday’s, it would be the nice walk to school. On Monday mornings there is always more action than on the other days of the week. The mail man does his rounds on Mondays, so almost everyone comes out to get their mail. It’s a very social day, not that I’m social. I always find it easier to talk to older folks though, compared to people my age. It’s funny, I can make conversation with a bunch of oldies at a nursing home, but put me in the centre of some bustling teenagers, and I’m lost for words. Dad just says I’m too mature for my age, whatever the reason, it doesn’t bother me. I much rather talk with wise and experienced people than stupid kids that try so hard to be something they’re not.

I arrive at school, on time. I genuinely am surprised at the fact that I always arrive on time, or early. This is mainly because I deliberately walk slowly on my way to school, to delay it as much as possible. The school yard is bustling with kids. I stare at them, dismayed that I’ll have to walk through the crowd. My feet turn to lead, and I find myself scanning the front of the school for a side route. I manage to find the gap I’m searching for, and head straight for it. I keep my head down, watching my feet. This way, I don’t have to make eye contact with anyone. The gap is closing in, and my nerves ease off a little. A few more metres and I’m there, but no such luck for Gracie Hill. My body comes into hard contact with another body. My face smashes into someone’s jaw; I hear a startled grunt and I awkwardly fall forwards; the other body still under me. I lay there, on top of this anonymous character for what seems like ages. Finally, my senses return. My vision snaps back to crystal clear; high-definition and I’m staring into the face of a guy. He’s looking at me with an expression that probably matches mine. People walk past, suppressing laughter and then there’s some who don’t have the courtesy to mask their amusement. I clumsily lift myself off the random guy, dusting down my skirt.