Metanoia

Chapter One ~ Ordinary

The trick to getting a broken toaster to work properly is to hit it on the right side twice and once on the left.

It wasn't like we could get rid of the ten-year-old toaster. No matter how many times I beg mum to buy a brand new one from the supermarket up the road, she plainly refuses.

Why? Heck, how should I know? Nobody knows what goes on inside an adult's head these days.

It still cooks toast! she always concludes, It's perfectly functioning!

I mean, honestly. Why keep a toaster that exchanges bruised fists for a half-cooked piece of bread? These days you can pick up a toaster for less than forty pounds. What a bargain!

But no, my parents obviously function differently.

Even after I attempt to get the toaster up and running once again, it fails to even singe the toast the smallest bit. At one point, it even begins to smoke a little. I sigh, incredibly frustrated. Can't a girl get any breakfast around here?

Eventually, I give in.

"Screw it; I'll just eat it raw."

Flicking the power switch on the wall off and pushing the banged up old thing to the side, I take a piece of bread off the bench and shove it into my hungry mouth. Nearly choking myself to death, I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room.

The living room, thankfully, was warmer than the kitchen was.

I had dressed myself in my usual school attire; dark jeans, long-sleeved shirt, a hoodie and a scarf. I wore chucks on my feet with warm fluffy socks. I knew that purple fluffy socks didn't match my outfit at all. 

Did I care? Not the least.

I had lazily done my hair up into a messy bun, letting my fly-aways fall gently against the sides of my face. I put concealer under my dark under-eyes and brushed my eyebrows into place. At least I look somewhat presentable.

I turn my head to angle my eyes at the lit-up screen of my television. The daily morning news program was running on channel nine; the one with all the 'breaking news' and the 'news hotspots'.

But somehow, watching the news only depresses me. All you see on television these days is plain bad news.

Another terror attack in London.

Another bashing in a local shopping centre.

Another murder merely blocks away from my small house.

The list seems endless. It feels like people have nothing better to do than hurt each other. It feels like the world is just a sad place where this kind of behaviour happens on a daily basis. It also feels like nobody is doing anything to try and stop it.

Finally drawing my eyes away from the colours and flashing words on the screen, I walk towards the window that sat parallel to the television.

I rest my elbows on the windowsill.

I can feel the cool Canterbury Autumn air just from touching the glass pane. I quickly pull my hand away gently, favouring the warmth of my heated house rather than the crisp cold window. My breath fogs up the glass as I look out at the sycamore tree that rests just outside the window in my front garden. It blew gently in the wind like a graceful dancer. Its leaves were orange, slowly turning a deep full-red colour. Slowly, one of the leaves from its thin branches fluttered onto the grass ground, snapping me out of my melancholic trance.