Brooklyn's Inner Soul

Found but still missing

A half an hour later:

"Where is it?" I hissed. My room was in ruins. I had been so desperate to figure out what someone had put in my pancakes. My stomach has officially stopped glowing. It is really ugly now. It is stained a golden yellow that stands out from my pale skin. I have hope that it will fade, but... That hasn't happened yet.  

I wonder where the "message box" is. I sigh. My parents already yelled at me once, for the noise. I had thrown everything around. Right now I am on all fours, searching for the tell tale signs of a box. Nothing. I bet the "messengers" where laughing at me. On that note, HOW DOES MY LETTER KEEP CHANING WORDS? I sigh again. Frustration and annoyance leaking out. Now I am just tired. I would sleep on my bed but it is currently sideways. 

I just lean against some wall tht didnt have anything in front of it. I was originally in the corner where my bed would have blocked. Something was sticking into my back. I smacked the wall without turning around. I could hear my parents grumbling downstairs. The wall felt rough and uneven compared to the smoothness of the rest. I turned around, thinking about repainting my------- 

WHAT? OMIGOD! The wall was protruding about less than half a inch in a small square shape. It started at the bottom of my wall and climbed about six inches. It was four inches wide. Is this the... Wait.. 

My face fell. It was painted over, and looked plastered over also.  

What is I try to chip it OFF? A coin! Wait, that only works on scratch offs. All this confusion was messing up the way I think. Oh well. I trott happily downstairs. Before my parents could lecture me about being noisy, I grabbed a knife.

I sneaked back upstairs. I was holding a butcher knife. Long, sharp, and used to cut meat. I looke doubtfully at it. It probably the largest we have. I tested it. I scrapped the sharp side along the length of the box. It peeled off in flakes. I was going to be hear awhile. Pull down, pick up, go back to top, pull down, repeat. Again. Again. Again and again.

One hour later:

I was almost done. I think. ... I hope. I could see a glow coming from it. Good sign? I duno. I continue until my hands hurt. I went downstairs for lunch. Since it is Saturday, I don't have to school. Mom was cooking pizza. It came frozen in a box. Ugh. I love making homemade pizza. "Harper, dear, preheat the oven to 350F" Mom called out to me. I said sure and quickly did it. I go and sit in a chair at the dinning room table. I inspected my hurt hands. There was few blisters. I managed to only cut myself once, and that was small. Before coming down here I soaked it in water. Dad looked at my fingers. "What did you do to your hands?" he asked gruffly. "I fell." I said, not slow enough to not be suspicious. He satred at me a little more before shaking his head and mumbling something about teenagers. This is when I am gald I am not actually related to him. I choked down my supreme pizza and ran back upstairs just as mom sat down.

"Rob, what has gotten into her?" Mom asked my dad. I stopped at the top of the stairs. I crouched down and listened.  

"I don't know, Marge." my Dad repiled. A crinkling of paper and a small groan. I am guessing dad is still reading his paper. 

"Rob! Do you think she knows?" my mom cried out.  

Dad sounded distressed,"I don't know Marge. Why don't you ask her?" 

Mom, now mad, screamed, "If I ask, she will know!"  

Dad huffed out a, "Drop it marge."

I ran up to my room. What do I know that mom would want to keep from me?