Winged Girl

Chapter 16

   Oh, right. Five more months. Five more months till I turned ten.
   Yes! One less year of my life to care about! My heart cheered without much genuine feeling as I packed my luggage for the new destination I'm hoping that I will like. I rummaged through my drawers and found a pair of socks with a nasty cheesy pong that barged it's way into my nostrils.
   "Ugh! Mom! Why the hell is this doing here?" I screamed.
   As usual, silence was the only one that replied me. I rolled my eyes and unhooked two jean jackets from the hanger and carried it to my bed where I folded it into a pile of mess and jammed it into case beside the foot of the bed frame.
   As the sun journeyed through the clear, sapphire sky, I continued, rushing to and fro, packing and "organising" my clothes. And it was merely my clothes that took me a whole day. How lucky I actually am, some people, way over the other side of earth, don't even have enough clothing to cover up things they don't want others to see! Or is food all they care about? I flicked the irrelevant question away and concentrated on folding my clothes into a messy pile and loading my baggage.
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   I woke to the calming chirp of the sparrows outside my window, leaves and branches swaying in the gentle breeze. I stared unseeingly at the ceiling and smiled at how good life is without school. Life. Is. Wonderful. All the particles of my body chanted. But then right after I turned ten everything whole return to normal, get bullied and taunted again, get mentally pushed over again, and nobody would help. Nobody would even look at you and have sympathy, like how we walk past beggars, not even glancing down for a split second. {people who do please don't be upset.}
The thought made me scream, with difficulty of course, my back on my bed, also alerting my mother, telling her that I was awake.
"Darling! Get up and pack your stuff!"
I reluctantly swung my feet over the edge and propelled myself upright. I maimed internally and got up onto my feet. Another boring day of packing. Luckily I don't have much things, which means I don't have to throw much things away, probably just a few pieces of excess furniture. Like my dad's working desk. Working desk? He's a fireman? Yes. My dad was influenced by my mom and liked drawing too. Not saying that his drawings were particularly good, but that doesn't mean I can draw either.
I bounced down the stairs and found my mom in the living room, insanely stashed red paint all over the canvas, like blood would spread over a battle field. Abstract paintings again, I didn't like them much, I prefer them realistic. I stood there like a dummy and watched my mom splash ribbons of paint across the canvas until she turned around no and asked me what I wanted. How does she even know I was there? Had she grown eyes on he back of her head?
"Breakfast's in the kitchen, help yourself. " she told me as she turned back to the opposite side and continued coating the symphony of colours onto the once-blank canvas. I watched as a few more drops of thick paint splattered on the floor and turned to leave.
I yanked open the cupboard door and pulled out the box of cereals. Setting it onto the table, I reached under it and jerked out a bowl from the cupboard. As I untangled the opening flaps of the cereal box, I tried to reason and make sense of why my mother would be painting at this time when she was supposed to pack up our furniture. The dried flakes that had rained I tot he bowl earlier was drenched by the milk I poured in afterwards and I dunked a spoon into it, immersing the tip of it.