The red ribbon around my neck fell off and I was handed a dark pink one. I had sinned. One more sin and I would be dead. Suicide. Or should I say, forced suicide.
This was a reoccuring dream of mine. Strange, I know.
I opened my eyes and peered at the clock. 6:10 am. I had an extra two hours to sleep in before school. "Andrea!" My mother calls, forcing me to get out of bed. Pulling myself out of the warmth of my bed I stretch.
8:08 am the clock read. I brushed my dark red shoulder length hair and applied some makeup. I don't wear much, usually just eyeliner and mascara.
Rushing downstairs I grab my keys and decide I'm going to stop at McDonalds for breakfast.
"Hello there, how can I help you?" a lady with a thick British accents says to me through a staticy microphone.
"Uhm, yes..can I get a chocolate ice capp please?" I say quietly.
"Is that all ma'am?"
"Yes."
I drive up to the window and the lady collecting my money looks at me fasinated.
"What is your accent? It's so lovely!" She says smiling.
"Oh, uh, I'm Canadian, hah." I say handing her a 5 pounds.
I drive up to the next window to recive my drink and leave.
People asked me that a lot. "What's your accent?" "Woah, where are you from?" I moved to England when I was 15 because my mother wanted to become a writer and she said that England gave her creative inspiration when in reality the reason for our move is that my parents did not get along very well.
I arrive at school at 8:20 with just 10 minutes to get to class. I don't usually use my locker, only in the winter to hold my coat before going out for lunch if I choose to.
Mr. Turner, the English teacher walks in holding a coffee in his left hand and a blue book in his right. "Morning class." he says blandly and sits down waiting for the announcements to come on through the intercom. For an eleventh grade teacher he sure seems worn out from this job. But hey, so would I. Who would want to come to a smelly tight spaced room at 8:30 in the morning and share you knowlege with people who aren't even listening?
After the announcements Mr. Turner begins his lesson about Shakespeare. I'm listening to him rant about how no one ever listens in his class and what's the point if no one is doing there homework when a sharp pain fills my brain. A migrane. Not just any ordinary migrane however.
I raise my hand to be excused to the bathroom to either pass out, puke, or both. As I make my way to stand up, I black out.
I hit my head on the floor. Ouch.
