Before Arizona.

I peered down at the pale, shaking fist before me. It took me a few moments to actually come to realization that it was indeed mine. I would never get over the fact that I am not whom I was before. I had intended to look down and see a healthy, hard closed fist in my lap, yet all I saw was my true shaking hand that surely resembled the paleness that was present on my tired face. Every morning I would wake up with a closed fist, if you could even call it closed. Ever since I had become ill, my ability to make a fist had been rapidly declining. Why would I wake up every morning with a closed fist? I cannot answer. Maybe it has to do with the fact that all of my dreams were filled with hatred and anger, that I would become so furious that I would instinctively make a fist. A knock resonated from my rickety door. My mothers honey sweet voice was muffled from behind it as she spoke.

"Dear, I have your tea." 

"Come in," I responded with a shaky voice. 

My mother opened the door with hesitation and seemed to glide into the room. In her hands was a tray with my favorite tea pot. It was a little, green, crematic thing, but I treasured it. With no doubt I knew that there was my favorite Irish Morning Tea inside of the steaming tea pot. Steam hurried out of the steep being caught by the early morning light streaming from my partly shaded window. I could smell the inviting scent that was carried with the tray. As my mother approached me, I cleared a spot on my bed side table, a little thing it was. It was just spacious enough to hold my seemingly endless stacks of books that ranged from originating places such as the library to a long forgotten garage sale to my own personal collection. 

The tray was placed on my bed side table, and I reached to grab my mug. As I reached, my eyes landed on the three sedentary, orange pills that I had been fearfully taking for the past six months. A look of disgust was plastered on my face knowing that I would have to yet again swallow those monsters. 

"You have to," my mother acknowledged. I peered up into her sparkling green eyes begging her with my own. She very well knew that I had bitterly disliked these pills. I did not hate them, no, because they were indeed helping me, yet I still detested them. 

"Please mother."

"Arizona, you have to take them. They make you so much better. The doctor does not want you straying off of them again. Rememeber what happened-"

"Yes, mother. I do remember, you do not have to remind me every second of every day, all right?" I snapped back at her, not needing to her the tale once again. 

My mother hesitated at my bedside, her eyes scanning across my plump face then moving to my bed. Some streams of light had escaped from my covered windows and was now coating my white day bed. It had an abundence of sheets, blankets, and comforters lying across it. Lining the back of my day bed was a strand of illuminated christmas lights that I keep up all year long. Sitting snug in my bed I broke my gaze from my mothers face and scanned my room.

The walls were painted in a white that seemed to reflect light in a way that lite up the whole room. My bed was situated on a small wall in the far side of the room, across from the wall that held my three windows that were covered up with a heavy white cloth made to keep the light from coming in. There was a petite wooden desk that was occupied by my school books, my own books, a wide, black lamp that was turned on only when it was late into the night, and my laptop that contained documents that had words, sentences, and paragraphs that would surprise even the most understanding mind. My handful of friends always complained that my room didn't have the sense of life to it; that there was too much white and not enough color. But what they failed to comprehend was the fact that I chose to have so much white in my room. That way I could display the important stuff on it and the white would not interfer with the impact of its importance. However, the problem was that I had no important stuff to display on the white canvas that was my room. 

A hand fell on my shoulder and pulled me back to the present matter. The three frightful pills were suddenly down my throat and in my system, a cup of my morning tea was in my hand, and my mother was gone. Peeking at my alarm clock I realised how late I was getting ready, and I preceeded to peel the mounds of blankets from on top of me and start my day. 

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You may have noticed that I changed this story from the original I wanted it to be, but I realised that the story I had in mind was not sufficiant enough and did not work well in my mind. Here is my book, Before Arizona. Enjoy!