Face The Music

Shaketramp

Bleary-eyed, I sat up. Brand new day, I guess.

Last night, I hadn't been able to fall asleep. Ugh, figures. Then again, I never could fall asleep.

I stumbled down the stairs and slammed my face on the dining room table. Now, this was more like it. I knew yesterday had had to be a fluke. Most mornings, I woke up like this. With nothing to keep me going, I barely even woke up at all.

The dreams almost swallowed me again.

But then my aunt shouted, "RISE AND SHINE, SWEETHEART!"

Barely raising my head from the table, I turned my head in her direction and muttered, "...Hi."

"HOW ARE YOU FEELING TODAY, SWEETHEART?"

"Eh."

"THAT'S GOOD, SWEETHEART. DO YOU HAVE ANY PLANS FOR YOURSELF TODAY, SWEETIE?"

"No, but based on your tone, I'm guessing you do."

"THAT'S RIGHT, SWEETHEART!"

"Stop. Please. Just. Stop."

"YOU'RE GOING TO A CONCERT!"

At this, I stiffened. "What kind of concert?" I sat up. "It better not be a piano concert." The last time my aunt had tried to make me go out and see a piano concert, I had ended up bawling my eyes out, remembering the night I had played the piano for the last time -- the night everything had changed forever. I was such a mess.

"Oh no, sweetie, it's a rock concert!" Lynn triumphantly stated. She pumped a fist into the air.

In my most condescending voice, I replied. "Auntie, honey, what are you trying to do here? I don't like music. I just don't like it. Rock music, least of all. I am not in the mood to listen to 50-year old men groan-sing in creepy voices. I can barely even stand to hear my classical music, which I once loved. It gives me nightmares. Please, I implore you, leave it alone."

"Don't speak to me in that tone, missy. You're going. Whether you like it or not. I think it will be good for you."

I groaned with as much gusto as I could muster "Remember what happened the last time you said that? Remember?! Oh god, I'm in for it now. Someone, just shoot me." But there was nothing I could do. My aunt was crazy.

So I gave up. Into my room, I went, picking up the months-worth of clothes I had left strewn all over the floor. I admit it, I was a bit of a slob. What was the point of folding clothes when you were just going to unfold them again later?

I tossed the pile of clothes onto my bed. Wrinkling my nose, I surveyed my room with distaste. I had decorated the place when I had come here at age 14 from San Francisco, after my parents had died. I was still such a baby back then, and my childish mindset was shown, reflected in the pastel pink and blue cotton-candy vibe radiating off of the walls. Beautiful crystals hung from the ceiling, and the bay window was decorated with dozens of snowflakes. Fairy lights were slung from surface to surface. In one corner sat my collection of gigantic stuffed animals, ranging from bears to unicorns to seals to pegasi to narwhals, and on and on and on. It was a never-ending list. In the other corner sat a soft purple beanbag, perfect for reading and listening to music. Except, I never listened to music. Ever.

I hated the room with my life. Sure, it was cute. But all it reminded me of was my inability to do music. If music was a verb, I had failed at it. I was once a musicker. A freaking music prodigy. But I lost all that. And this room only served as a constant nagging, urging me to go back. To return to the music world. But I refused.

And here my aunt was, pushing me into it with both hands. Thanks, Auntie.

It was no use dwelling on things already past. So I busied myself in the attempt to make my closet look somewhat presentable. I hung up shirts where I could and hid the rest in the darker corners where no one (I hoped) would think to look.

Satisfied with my handiwork, I sat back. "A rock concert, huh?" I asked myself. "Wonder who it could be. I mean, it's Canada. Crazy, psychotic people come out of Canada. Look at Justin Beiber. That's scary. Oh, no."

I sprinted out of my room and shouted to my aunt, "AUNTIE!! I DON'T WANT TO GO ANYMORE! PLEASE DON'T MAKE ME GO! JUSTIN BEIBER SCARES THE SHIT OUT OF ME!"

She just shouted back, "JUSTIN BEIBER IS NOT ROCK, IS HE? YOU SURE AS HELL ARE GOING. AND YOU ARE GOING TO ENJOY EVERY. SINGLE. SECOND. GET MOVING!"

And that was that.

Damnit! I'm screwed.

I marched back into my room, resigned to my fate. A rock concert. What the hell was she thinking?

I picked out a comfy black tank top that stated "BLACK IS MY HAPPY COLOR" on the front, and studded purple frayed shorts. Then, I examined myself in the mirror.

Sigh. After all these years, you'd think I would've gotten slightly more attractive. But no. I was still the same, old, average me. Of course, I was!

I fingered my hair, wondering how to style it. It was a dark, dark brown -- nearly black, but only at the roots, because a neat transition turned it from its natural color into a royal purple, which faded slowly into pastel purple, ending at my waist. I had done it myself, a couple of months ago, back when I was yet again itching for a change. My aunt had declared me crazy, but she was obviously no better.

I settled for a neat side Dutch braid. Onto the makeup! Normally, I didn't wear much makeup.  No one cared what I looked like -- me, least of all.

But this was a rock concert. The people would obviously judge me if I didn't at least wear a little bit of eyeliner.

As I applied my makeup, I examined my face a little more (because I'm vain AF). Dark eyes, framed with dark lashes. Some freckles, too. Add to the mix quite a couple of ear piercings. Earlobe up to helix and even a little farther. Haha, I felt pretty badass at that moment. But then I looked again. I was so average, it wasn't even funny. Average height. Average weight. Average looks. Average life. Un-average hair. Oh, how I longed for my life to be un-average, all over again.

I grabbed my phone and slumped out of the house, frustrated, once again. My mood swings were getting worse. I tossed myself into the car, where my aunt was (somehow) already waiting.

"WOOHOO! LET'S GO!" She shouted.

I shook my head and stared out the window. My aunt was an idiot.

_______________

Tell me, guys, is Kiera a little too much of a spoiled brat? I honestly wouldn't be surprised. But let me know. I don't want her to be too hatable.

Wow, this story is going sooo slooooowwwwwlllllyyyyyyyy. Sorry, I'm a detail freak.

This chapter is also really long. It's 1114 words. What is wrong with me? It's midnight over here, so maybe I'm just rambling.

Again, I'm a crazy Grammar Nazi. Tell me if I made any mistakes!

Thanks for reading! I love you guys!