Replenished

You wake up in a cold sweat, as you come to your senses you realize you had just tortured your brain with an unbearable dream. Such a dream that can't be described let alone interpreted. You glance at your alarm clock, searching frantically for the light because it was so pitch black you couldn't see your own hand if it were to be placed in front of your face. It was nearly four o'clock A.M. It being almost time for you to get up you decide to start your regular routine.  

You walk down the hall, hearing the air conditioner rattle as you switch it on on your way to the bathroom. From the bathroom you splash the crisp cold sink water on your face, feeling the end of your hair prickle slightly. You were about to take a shower when you accidentally glanced in the mirror. You catch a glance in the mirror just long enough to stare into your own eyes. Looking back at you is your father. Suddenly you feel a deep hatred toward the mirror. It had allowed you to see who you really are. It had the guts to tell you the truth. You start yelling at the mirror, telling it that it should be ashamed of its self and blaming it for all of your problems.

In frustration you punch the mirror where your face had once been, it not revealed a bloody kaleidoscope of un-trustworthiness, narcissism, selfishness....the list was endless, but all in all you were an overly glutless person who couldn't seem to overcome the past. Now the hatred turns toward yourself...but hey, this was a regular routine remember? You jump in the shower, and scrub at your shredded knuckles with mango body wash, though people thought you were gay when they had smelled the reminisce of it, that and your kiwi shampoo. Though you knew no matter how many perfumed products you used, you can't shake the dirt of old actions. Sweet smells can't cover up everything.  

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ 

I find myself back in my disoriented room, it's maroon colored walls still covered in childish posters from floor to ceiling. Still trying to configure the dream in my head, I restlessly get dressed in my favorite black and gray striped shirt, green boxers being slightly exposed by my sagging black skinny jeans. I let out a long sigh and begin to untie my ox blood red Doc Martines, these give you an excuse to drag your feet around the endless days of high school.

I stare at the only white wall in my condo wondering if it, like the mirror, would reveal anything to me; things I couldn't admit to myself therefor inanimate objects did that for me. I pick up my leg and  kick the wall for not speaking up as it should have, with everything I have behind it. The picture of my last family get together clashes to the floor. Crap! I stoop down to see the damage done, the frame was cracked from the fall impact. I grab some duck tape from a nearby shelf, taping it up good as new. The photo was dated back in 2010, three years ago. I can't help but laugh a little at how much could be foretold from a still picture.

You glance at your watch and cuss under your breath, at this rate you were going to be late for homeroom again, not that social studies was that big of a problem for you to miss, but still. You finally find the keys to your car after searching and researching every jeans and jacket pocket you own, to find them hanging on a hook labeled so eloquently, "keys." You slip you black hoody on, and sling your backpack over one shoulder heading out the door.   As your half way to school, it hits you- you forgot, yet again, to lock up the place. For all you knew the garage door still hung open, open to the world and its many stray cats. You argue with yourself long enough to have your school in view, you see the other 'brilliant' students of the lottery school trying to wedge themselves in the double red doors to the school, as to not be marked as tardy. Obviously the bell had rung, and your labyrinth of a mind concludes that it will be fun getting rid of 70,000 stray cats when you get home instead of being late.

You quickly undo your seat belt, and slam the door shut locking it behind you as you begin to mimic the pushing and shoving through the only entrance in which doesn't set off some sort of alarm.   You pull out your schedule which you still have to remember which room number your first period class was. Ah, room 83...of coarse it was! In this split second you just so happen to see that the first period is math, which had a final you didn't study for. So much for procrastination. These thoughts seem to echo and bounce off the limits of your brain as you enter the room, head hung low, your hood pulled over the brim of your eyes. You slowly lower yourself into your assigned seat, hoping not to attract attention.

Mrs. Conway enters the room just as the tardy bell rings in her usual pristine teacher look. Her golden locks of hair now grayed at the end "because of us" as she always said, was pulled back into a tight bun. She had the glasses, the pencil sitting behind her ear, the lady version of a suit.   You sigh dramatically and sit back in your blue stained metal chair that hurts your ass just by looking at it. You know what comes next- it always comes next... roll call. The only time of the day anyone could make you speak and say ," here!" When your name was called. But, instead, Mrs. Conway acknowledged you. Probably because of the dramatic sigh, or maybe it was due to the fact that you were the only human being known to mankind to ever wear a black hoody this time of year in Florida. She walks up to your desk in her clippy-cloppy shoes which make her shorter than all of her students to shorter than most of her students.  

She just stands there, in front of the whole class, just...just starring at you. Not that you can tell, your hood hanging so low now it covers your eyes. She was standing so close you could feel her breath on the top of your head. You could even tell she forgot to brush her teeth, that breath was anything but minty. 

Finally you hear her say,"Snoopes! Sit up straight-"   All you could hear was your last name being pronounces incorrectly, once again. Your jaw clenched, you hated it when people couldn't pronounce it right, it was simple phonics. If there was a consonant between two vowels then the vowel would be long. Snōpês. You recall the numerous times she had tried and failed during roll call: Snoopes, Snowpeas, Snoopy.  

"It's S-N-O-P-E-S, Snopes Lady." You say through your gritted teeth.   You hear gasps amongst your fellow peers, being that this was probably your first sentence said all year. Then you became the center of attention, 19 pairs of beady little black eyes all focused on you. You think you shouldn't have spoken at all, another regret- just great! The reason to you not speaking all this time is due to your psychotic mother repeating some old Abe Lincoln quote, " Better to stay silent and let those to ponder you as ignorant than to speak and prove them correct." You have honored her wise sayings to her death.  

Now they all looked at the hoody-kid. That was your nickname alluded to you by a few of your stalkers. They were thought to be friends, as gossip went in the teacher's lounge (yes, even teachers gossip.) You knew they weren't friends, they couldn't be. The only time they seemed to talk to you was when math homework was passed around, or they forgot to take notes and needed to borrow yours. They were never there for you as Hollywood movies said friends should be.   After back talking the teacher she herself pauses mid-sentence, still showing shock in the gesture of her face. Then her eyes seem to automatically squint at you, as if a button had been pushed and her body reached accordingly. Oooh, The Evil Eye! How scary! You have to hold back a laugh, to you she appears to be a siamese cat on drugs.  

"Okay Snopes, you're obviously here....," she says, marking your name off the attendance sheet. You hear a few scattered giggles from the class. You look over what just happened and the situation at hand, in your mind she was almost mocking you for being there. You feel she has won some on going war between you two. You contemplate your next move on this metaphorical chess game, spot your chance for a checkmate, and go for it!  

You stand up so quickly your chair falls against the desk behind you and then it clatters to the floor. You walk out of the class, clutching at your locker key so tightly your knuckles turn white. On the way out you hit your free hand on the teachers desk so hard it moves a little. Most would have winced in pain, but pain was something you were not only used to but could easily ignore.   When you reach your locker you unravel the key from your hand. There stands an indention and a black outline where the key had once been. You jab the key into the lock and turn it the wrong way about 4 times before you are calm enough to realize your stupidity. Once open, you grab take off your hoody, and stuff it in your once clean locker. You quickly unzip your backpack and grab a bought and paid for social studies text book, a pack of paper and pencils, then head out the door unnoticed. You learned as long as you did look suspicious as far as the office people knew~ you weren't. 

____________________________________________________________

N/A Thank you so much fro reading the first chapter, sorry if it's a little rough~ please do let me know of any critiques, I can take them. :) 

-Crickette