Search for SMOS: A Deep Spiral

Chapter 2: Cold, Dead Air

"It's a personal favorite of m-"

I jolted awake to the sound of loud knocking on the door. I groaned, flipping onto my side and pushing myself deeper into the covers. "Go away..."

"Oasis. Get up. Don't make me drag you out of bed."

"Ten- uh- five more minutes..."

An exasperated sigh came from behind the door before it swung open. Footsteps drew closer to me before my blankets were ripped off of me. "Ugh, give them baaack, I'm tired..."

Mom sighed, dropping the blankets on the floor before walking over to the other side of the room, kicking and nearly tripping over the trash covering my floor.

"I told you to clean your room. It's a pigsty in here."

I yawned. "Thanks for stating the obvious."

"Don't get snippy with me."

"I'm not."

She turned to me and flew the curtains to my window open, burning my eyes with the glistening sunrise. I hissed, covering my eyes from the sunlight's agony.

Mom walked over to my bed and sighed. "I'm being serious. Get up. I shouldn't have to wake you up every workday."

"What time is it..."

"About 7:30. You have an hour and fifteen to get out and go to work."

I groaned louder, sitting up in bed as mom continued. "I don't work at an elementary school and deal with five-year-olds for six hours just to watch my adult daughter, my twenty-three-year-old daughter, have tantrums over not wanting to get out of bed."

I scowled at her before grabbing the covers off the ground and hiding under them. Mom only continued. "I made breakfast. Left some for you on the table. Don't let it get cold."

"Mmmmwhy do you hate me..." I whined, turning towards her as she walked over to the door.

She paused, her hand gently grasping the edge of the door handle.

"I don't hate you." She asserted. "Someone just needs to... push you in the right direction."

She stood in the doorway, quieter than she's ever been, before leaving and slamming the door shut in what I can only assume is frustration.

I sighed, escaping the warmth of my bed after a few more minutes of moping (It was actually twenty minutes but...). I yawned, stretched, then slowly made my way over to the bathroom.

I stared at myself in the mirror, taking in every detail.

God, I look like a mess.

...I am a mess.

Did I even shower last night? I can't remember...

I straightened my leaves lazily before heading out of the room, walking over to the kitchen and looking around for mom. Her purse wasn't anywhere to be found, meaning she had probably already left.

I looked at the table, staring at a plate with a freshly made omelet on it.

Another omelet plate. And another letter.

"Don't let it get cold. Don't throw it up. And don't throw it away. Love you very much. —Mom"

...

I've told her I hate omelets.

So many times.

And she still makes them.