School of Claw| #Wattys2016

Prolouge ~Part Three~

     "Oreo! Come clean this mess you left in the living room! I will not allow your muddy boot prints to rub into my rug, it's vintage for God's sake!" my mum called with her thick British accent.

     Oops. I stared down at my rubber red rain boots (whoa, a lot of 'R's' there, Oreo) and soon noticed the earthen mess they left behind. Sod was in clumps all over Mum's new rug, I had made quite the mess. It was pretty obvious that I had been the culprit. I was the only one other than my mum who lived in this lonely white mansion--plus, this morning, I was splashing in rain puddles with Sadie.

     I gave her a sympathetic grin, the one Mum called my 'troublemaker's grin' before speaking up, "Oops?" The words came out more like a question. She wasn't pleased.

     "Get the hoover Oreo! And do not give me that grin again, or I swear to God I will throw you to a pit of rabid tigers!" she scolded, "C'mon now, it's upstairs."

     I grudgingly took of my boots and plopped them by the door. The two shoes made a weird squishing noise from the mud on their soles. My mum could deal with that. Right now I could go for a candy bar and some music. No way was I going to clean up that mess.

     "Humph, very well Mother. I'm off to clean the rug."

     "And no detours, you! I am not in the bloody mood right now, Oreo!"

     "Wasn't planning on it, Mum!"

     "Oreo! I mean it this time!"

     "Okay!"

     "Do not 'okay' me missy! I swear if you're not here in ten minutes with a scrub brush and a hoover you will regret it!"

     "I love you too Mother!"

     "Humph."

     That was close. I gave Mum a kiss on her cheek and made way to the staircase. My mum is one of the richest people in London. And gosh, does she love to spend that dough she receives. Our house is huge. It quite literally takes me ten minutes to walk from the living room to my bedroom.

     While I walk through the winding marble corridors, I laugh at my ancestors' portraits lining the hall, as I always do. Some of them look quite crazy with their curly cue mustaches and top hats. But they all look serious. And that's what I hate about them. Not a smile is to be seen.

     Every step I took up the spiraling, three story staircase was a skip, taking two steps at a time. I hummed the whole way up, also. I took a small huff as I reached the top and straightened my burgundy blouse and plaid skirt. I was starting to get out of shape, it seemed.

     "Hello Mr. Squiggles!" I giggled to my teacup Yorkie as I entered my pink and yellow room.

     I took a second to admire my room; it was nothing like the others. Murals of yellow monarch butterflies swirled around the pink walls of my bedroom. My bed was goddess sized and had a handmade quilt knitted by some person a long time ago. It was also pink. A giant, walk-in wardrobe stood proudly in one corner, my sweets counter--with a wide selection of candies spread out on it--in another. I loved my room.

     Mr. Squiggles scurried up to me, his black eyes capturing the perfect look of innocence. He gave a yap of acceptance. I was like a mum to him, after all. My small Yorkshire Terrier was covered in pink bows, and strangely, he liked it that way. No one has been able to figure it out. Even our dog physiologist--yes, those do exist--couldn't seem to wrap around the idea of why a male dog favored frilly pink bows in his fur. I loved him anyway.