Life is a Prologue

The Prologue

beep, beep, beep.

I reach over and slap snooze.

Seven minutes later, the process repeats.

And another seven minutes later, it happens again.

After about four cycles of this, I lazily place my feet on the floor and run my fingers though my hair, which is now more of a bird's nest. That's what my mother always called it. A bird's best. I can still hear her voice.

"Claire," she'd laugh, "It looks as if birds were nesting in your hair during the night!" I would respond with a giggle. She'd kiss me on the cheek and ruffle my hair, destroying it further.

God I miss that.

Back to reality. I'm not a child anymore, I'm an adult. 19 years old is to old to be dwelling on the past.

Because life is a prologue.

Everything happens before something bigger, something better. Or something worse, something sadder.

I believe we are all stuck in this time frame- which will continue to restart with different endings- called a prologue.

Life is so short, so vulnerable and could be taken from you at any moment, really. That's why I live in the moment, not worrying about the past, only the present.

I listen to birds chirping outside my window, which is odd, really, considering I live on the 23d floor of my London apartment.

Gripping the cotton curtains, I fling them back and reveal the spectacular view if the city.

I've made a very good living for my age of 19, able to buy this apartment and pay for it by myself. My previous job experience is impressive- reporter for a local news station, writer for a big London newspaper, assistant at a publishing company, and oddly enough, an amateur photographer at a children's photo studio. I know that last one seems out of place, but hey. Take what you can get.

I stand on the balcony until the sun has completely risen over a building in the distance. The bright rays acting as an alarm clock, telling me to go inside. To get ready for the day.

I have an interview with a magazine today, to begin as a writer. The woman I spoke to on the phone said my resume is rather impressive, or at least more impressive than the other candidates for the job.

Walking toward my vanity, I retrieve the cord to the curling iron and plug it in.

The shower is turned on, the curtain pulled aside before I step into the welcoming steam and warmth.

While belting The Beatle's 'Let it Be' I scrub my hair and body until not a speck of dirt is on me.

Twenty minutes later, my hair is dry and ready to be curled.

And then twenty more minutes later, my hair is done and I'm moving on to makeup.

A thin layer of concealer, a dab of powder, and a few coats of mascara. That's all I need.

Finally, my hair and makeup is complete and I can begin the task of finding something to wear.

My closet is torn apart in the process, but eventually I find the perfect outfit.

Black heels, a pink knee-length circle skirt, and a ruffled white blouse. Young and stylish, yet mature and sophisticated. Perfect.

My phone alarm goes off, alerting me that I need to leave if I wish to be there at a good time. It's 8:45 now, the drive is 15 minutes, and my interview is at 9:30. That'll put me there about half an hour early, but that's what I want.

I carry my resume and all the other things I need with me out the door, double and triple-checking that it's locked.

"Shit, did I get my phone?" I mumble to myself, rummaging through my purse for the small device. It's then that I run into something, or someone and my purse falls. The contents scatter everywhere. To make matters worse, the papers in my hands scatter all over too.

And that's how it all began.