Only a dream

Chapter 3

I sit slumped against the outside of my bedroom door. The smooth wood warm against my frigid body. I haven't changed my clothes. I'm still in my wind-blown t-shirt and tattered brown pants. My hair is stuck awkwardly to my cold face. The feeling has just returned to my fingers, which were actually turning blue from the chilly air.

I glance up at the clock on the wall across from me. 5:55. All fives. That makes me laugh a silent, dreary laugh because I'm so confused and tired.

I continue to stare at the clock. I watch as the hands dance across the face of it. Shiny black pieces of plastic moving forever in circles. I fade out into my thoughts, letting them drown me in nothing.

I wake up from my trance-like daydream of nothing and stare at the clock, which now reads 6:42. I slept for almost an hour. It's Tuesday, I have school, which starts at 7:30. I'd better hurry.

I push up off the brown shaggy carpet and turn my bedroom door knob. The metal cold in my hands.

I push open the heavy door and trudge inside. I choke in shock. Everything is destroyed. Or, in other words, vandalized.

My bed, with its once-white puffy blankets drowning the frame, is somehow on its side. My dark oak dresser facing backwards. My long rectangle window, which stretches from one end of the far wall to the other, has a thin, hairline crack trailing all the way from the left side to the right.

My closet doors are thrown open, both sticking out at awkward angles, off there hinges and dented.

My ceiling fan that was once firmly mounted on the ceiling, now rests in a heap on the brown carpet. Wires protrude limply from the beige ceiling where the fan was once attached and running.

I gape in shock and horror as I take in the scene. Someone, something has done this. I think back to those blue eyes, the ones peering at me when I was freezing outside. Maybe that's who did this. But who is τհατ?

After about ten minutes, I begin to get ready. There's no sense in standing here forever staring at what once was my bedroom. I'll clean up and tell my mom after school. After all, my mom sleeping, I don't wanna wake her up. She always stirs when I'm gone to school.

I take a deep breath and begin stepping over the debris that covers my floor and head towards my mangled closet. I change out of my weather-worm pyjamas into a pair of plain, dark blue jeans and an even plainer dark purple t-shirt. I throw on a pair of mismatched socks; one plain orange with a hole in the big toe and the other striped with a zebra pattern. I can never find a matching pair of socks. I never do the laundry good enough.

I hurdle back over the furniture that lines my bedroom carpet and go into the bathroom. I find my toothbrush, the one with light purple and mint green bristles, and I grab my toothpaste, which holds a flavour like cinnamon. I brush vigorously and when I'm done I spit into the sink and wash the remnants of the toothpaste down the drain.

I open the cupboard beside the toilet and search for my hairbrush. It's not in its usual spot, behind the hairspray and elastic bands.

"Where are you hiding?" I whisper to myself.

After about five minutes, I find the darned thing at the very back of the cupboard, pressed behind the extra shampoo bottles. I quickly run it through my tangled hair and throw it into a messy pony tail.

I peer at myself through the shining glass mirror. I look worn out and tired. Light purple bags hang under my sleepy eyes. I reach into the makeup drawer, right above where my hairbrush was and apply some makeup under my eyes, masking the bags. I also hastily slash on some mascara to make my eyes look more awake.

"There," I smile to my reflection, "perfect,"

I sprint down the stairs, two at a time to the kitchen. I swiftly grab some whole-wheat bread and a slice of cheese. I put it together and make a messy cheese sandwich, which I toss furiously into a plastic bag. I also grab a plastic container of strawberries and pluck a few of the red fruits into a separate bag.

I discover a can of seven-up in the back corner of the fridge. I toss all the contents of my rushed lunch into my backpack, which is slumped up against the kitchen counter, and sprint to the front door. It's 7:15. I've got fifteen minutes to be at school.

I dig through the closet, tossing shoes and boots out of the way until I find what Im looking for. My black converse sneakers. I tug them on and whip open the door, leaving the closet open, and sprint to my bus stop down the street.

I'm just in time as I watch the big white transit bus pull up. I hand the driver-a gruff old man with crooked glasses and an unshaven face-my money and jump over to an empty, red leather seat and we're off to school.