It was Monday, October 17th, Willow, and her father had moved to Canada two months ago, and it was time for her to get enrolled in school, boarding school, Her Father enrolled her and today was the first day.
In the early morning darkness, a faint buzzing begins, barely stirring the stillness of the room. The alarm clock hums persistently, but its sound, muffled by thick blankets, is little more than a distant nuisance. Underneath the covers, time seems suspended, each minute stretching luxuriously, tempting sleep to linger just a little longer.
The alarm persists, its rhythm now a bit sharper, more insistent. Her groggy hand reaches out from the cocoon of blankets, fingers fumbling blindly to silence it. The room sighs back into silence, and for a moment, everything is calm again. Her eyes close, consciousness slipping back into the warm depths of sleep.
The room is pitch-black when her dads footsteps reach her door, slow and steady, as if he's giving her one last chance to wake up on her own. But she's too deep in sleep to notice-until the door creaks open and a sliver of hallway light spills across the floor.
She hears his voice, low but firm, cutting through Her dreams. "Time to get up." It's not a suggestion. His voice is stern, almost gentle, but there's no mistaking the finality of it. A rough, warm hand taps her shoulder, nudging her awake just enough to mumble something incoherent and turn over, trying to buy a few more minutes.
"Willow, wake up, now," her dad said a little louder and persistent. "I'll take your guitar away,"
She groaned as she rubbed her eyes. Turning over, she took the blanket off her face, looking up at him groggy
"Fine," she mumbled incoherently. She rubbed her eyes, yawning
"You've got an hour hurry up." her dad pushed, and he left the room, closing the door but leaving it open an inch
Willow groaned, getting up. Everything was spinning as she held her head
She took her sweater off, wincing at the dried blood.
She was too tired to clean up last night, and she threw the sweater to the side. She looked in the mirror, sighing at her body image. She ignored it and went to her drawer, getting bandages wrapping them
She went into the bathroom, and she sighed. She had to brush her teeth. She hadn't brushed them in weeks. She stared at herself in the mirror, her bleary-eyed fingers fumbling with the toothbrush as though it were something unfamiliar. Her hair was a tangled mess, flattened in odd places from days of lying in bed, her skin pale from the lack of daylight. Each sluggish movement felt like a small victory against the heavy inertia that had kept her isolated, still cocooned in the rumpled sheets for days.
As she spread the toothpaste, her reflection caught her off guard-thin shadows under her eyes, a paleness that wasn't just physical but felt like an imprint of everything she'd been carrying alone. Slowly, she started brushing, wincing as the bristles passed over her gums, unused to the sensation after days of neglect. The mint tasted sharp, foreign, yet somehow anchoring. She let herself fall into the repetitive rhythm, feeling a small spark of normalcy.
The swirling mint felt like a renewal, washing away not just plaque but on days of unspoken heaviness. In that quiet moment under the cold, white bathroom light, she glimpsed a faint resilience in herself she'd almost forgotten was there.
She stood in front of the mirror, fingers shaky as they slid through tangled curls, fighting against weeks of neglect. Her hair, wild and knotted, cascaded down in thick spirals, a mix of defiant waves and snarls. She gripped the brush and slowly began, wincing as it pulled through the tangles. Her face was pale, shadows under her eyes, and she wore an oversized shirt that looked like it had been her uniform for days on end. The smell of faint, stale shampoo lingered in her hair, a reminder of how long it had been since she'd last tended to herself.
The bathroom was dimly lit, and her reflection looked foreign, worn-down but soft, as if in this small act of care, she was beginning to reclaim a sense of self. The brush moved through each section with care, easing out knots as she exhaled, Willow sprayed water in her hair to make it easier as she worked through the tangles, wincing she sighed, she looks like crap, Willow got a towel from the drawer.
She turned on the shower, letting the sound of rushing water drown out her thoughts, the steam rising like a fog around her. As the water warmed, she shed her clothes, each piece a reminder of the hours spent cocooned in her bed not eating or doing anything
With a deep breath, she stepped under the spray, feeling the water cascade over her. It washed away the layers of sweat, each droplet revitalizing her tired body. She closed her eyes, letting the water run through her hair, feeling it cling to her skin, and slid down her back.
The scent of her favorite body wash is a fragrant reminder of brighter days. As she lathered the soap between her hands, each rinse, pulling her closer to the surface of herself.
After a few moments, she stepped back, allowing the water to pummel her skin like a gentle massage. she reached for the shampoo, massaging it in her hair.
After 10 minutes, she got out, wrapping her towel around her body. She walked out of the steaming bathroom to her room, getting her clothes from her closet. She got out exteremly baggy pants, a short sleeve baggy black t-shirt with writing on it, and a brown Plaid flannel to cover her arms with a pair of coverse
Willow walked down the stairs, grabbing her skateboard and backpacks about to walk out the door
"Will, are you hungry-" her brother started, but she cut him off
"I'm not bye," she then left the house skateboarding to the bus.
YOU ARE READING
Promise You'll Be Here Forever?
Romance☆ "Princess, Princess, why you cut your wrists" ☆ A 15 year old girl named Willow Leroy, who grew up in the Bronx with money struggles, moves to Toronto, Canada, meets Rich Boy Maxwell Laurent
