Flaws, Flames, & Flashes

III.

When my mom and I arrived home last night, I decided to forget about the ice cream. I was exhausted and also needed rest. I turned a movie on and laid on the couch, while my mom stuffed herself with pop corn till she fell asleep.

When she woke up and was about to head home, they called her in for work. It was almost 10:00 PM and she was beyond pissed. She started babbling about her vice-president, how he never cooperates with her and how he supposedly is envious of her. I mean, who wouldn't, she's Aubrey Ramirez, CEO of Yerbua Industries, an architectural construction enterprise. She designs new buildings and the spaces in and around them. She also restores, conserves and, modernizes older buildings. Those buildings that are left abandoned, she develops new ways of using them and creates something beautiful out of something completely destroyed. Between all the preparing and presenting the designs, creating detailed drawings to show clients and contractors at meetings and the negotiating with the specialists, she also has to deal with problems that might come up during the building process and make site visits to check on progress. As you can imagine, her schedule is pretty tight and her enemies list is humongous. She earns more than $72,000 a year, $34.88 an hour. I'm even jealous of her success.  

She continued her rant all the way to the front door and down the drive way until she got in her car and drove away. After that, I stayed on the couch waiting for The Cabin in the Woods to start playing but, in between the commercials and the annoying lag, I fell into a deep slumber.

***

The sound of a truck backing up and the shuffling of garbage, disrupted my serene state of mind. I tried to move around but, I felt stuck. There was like a wall but, it was comfortable and soft, cushion like. I opened my eyes slightly, trying to block the sunlight with my arm. Becoming conscious with my surroundings, I acknowledge that I'm not on my bed but, on a sofa, my sofa. I get up and stroll over to the TV, hitting the power button then walking down the hall. I flounder into my room, so worn out I can barely turn my door knob open. I plop onto my bed.

I officially self diagnose myself with Dementia. I forget things, and become confused to quickly. My muscles are weak every once in a while, and I have a short attention span. 

What day is it? Tuesday? Wait no, my mom came yesterday . . . and yesterday was Thursday so . . . today is Friday. Friday means school. School means 'get up Andrea'.

Yes, Dementia it is.

Sighing, I pull at my hair and turn in my bed, sitting on the edge and stuffing my hands under my thighs. Pushing myself up, I wander around my room looking for my purse. Remembering I had placed it on the kitchen counter last night, I run back out into the living room. As I'm walking down the tiny hall, I hear faint noises coming from the kitchen. Cabinets opening and closing, plates colliding with other objects, the faucet running, and the sound of heavy footsteps.

I left the living room barely five minutes ago. Was he or she already there? How could I not have heard them? Who is it anyways?

Sauntering, I turn the corner and standing in my hot pink apron is none other than Brandon Wright. He's frantically trying to flip a burnt omelet with a tiny spatula. His hair is sticking out in every which way, and his cheeks are turning pink from the heat of the stove.

"Brandon." Smirking at him, I place a hand on my hip and tilt my head.

"Heeeey," His cheeks are now red of embarrassment. "umm, good morning?" He tries to flip the omelet once again but, only throws it over the pan and onto the floor. I walk over to him and take the spatula from him, bending down to pick up the steaming omelet. I push down on the trash can foot pedal and I throw in the monstrosity.