Paperboy. (h.s. au)

02.

I feel myself slowly ease into consciousness after my eventful night of slumber. My eyes are still closed, but I'm awake. This might be my favorite part of the day- when I'm still half asleep in the morning, eyes shut. I have nothing to worry about because I'm not fully with it yet. I still have the choice to go back to sleep and see what dreams come, or to welcome reality and open my eyes. It is, in a way that I understand very well, blissful.

Unfortunately I have no time to make that choice because there is a soft knock at my door, which is slightly ajar. I never keep my door fully closed at night. It makes me feel trapped. And frankly, I'm scared of the dark, hence the moon- shaped nightlight in the corner of my room. And the string lights on the wall. And the second nightlight in the other corner. Call me childish, but more people do it than you think.

I bury my head further into my pillow, hoping that whoever it is thinks that I'm still asleep and leaves.

"Robin, honey, I know you're awake- I saw you moving around. Get up, please." A pause. "I made pancakes." She knows just how to get me.

Well, if there's pancakes...

I open my eyes and roll over onto my back. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and glance at the digital clock on my nightstand.

7:30?!

"Why am I up so early?" I ask out loud, sleep still coating my voice.

My mother, still in the doorway, answers the question. "You knew that you had to be up at nine, anyway. Get out of bed, please. And get dressed. You see your dad today," she reminds me.

Right.

My parents divorced when I was eleven years and five months old. I arrived home one day from school and both of my parents were home sitting at the kitchen table, which I found odd since my father usually worked during the day, and through much of the evening. They had me sit down and told me the news. They told me I had to start acting more like an adult and that I had to make sure that I watch over my brother when my mom couldn't, though "this will not affect you that much." I remember crying and sorrowful looks from the two of them. I remember how  confused little David was when Daddy wasn't home to eat dinner with us anymore. I remember crying more when he kept asking my mom this. I remember many apologies, and countless vocalizations of love towards us despite what was happening. My dad now lives about twenty minutes away, and David and I try to visit him once or twice a week.

I roll out of bed and find some jean shorts to put on. Once I've done that, I pull off my big t-shirt and put a bra and a white shirt with black stripes on it. I put my hair up so it's out of my face because I can't deal with my curly mess of hair today. I left my room without checking the mirror. I've had a bad habit of doing that lately. I figure that if it's bad enough my mother or David will tell me.

I walk down the stairs and place two pancakes on a plate for myself and sit down. When I get up to get the syrup, I remember to get the paper outside so I have something to read. Sure, it's old fashioned, but I like reading the paper in the morning. I like to think that the whole town still reads the paper, but in reality it's probably just myself. This is another thing David likes to call me an old man for. I'm starting to notice the unfortunate similarities- the naps, the medication, the old car, the newspaper.

I step onto the porch barefoot and see that there isn't a rolled up newspaper on the sidewalk. I guess it's pretty early yet, so the paper isn't here yet. As I turn to open the door back up I see someone riding a bicycle down the street way too fast with a bag slung over their shoulder. I assume that this is the person who delivers the papers, so I sit and wait on the step.

Looking down at my feet, I do what I do best and avoid interaction. I can hear the bike's tires speeding closer to my house, so I wait for the paper to come and for them to pass.

Right as I glance up, however, a bagged up newspaper smacks me square in the face.

My head shoots up in shock to see where it came from, but the culprit is speeding away on their beat up yellow bike. As they pedal far too quickly, a blue hat flies off their head and lands in the road behind them.

"Work on your aim next time!" I yell down the road at them in a fit of rage and rare confidence. They must have heard me and look over their shoulder. I distract them, because they gracefully swerve their bike and crash into the back of someone's car a few houses down. It was a mess of limbs and newspapers. The person's car alarm went off.

Gotta love a fresh cup of karma in the morning.

I shake my head with a scoff and walk back inside, taking the paper with me.

_________________________

A/N: I wonder who that could be...?