November 6, 2009 (Friday)
Teenage problems : Waking up early in the morning when you SO wanted to sleep.
The problem is I can't.
I've been fixing my things for the wholeeee day and I'm probably suffering fatigue now . . . just kidding. I'm served with a scoop of ice cream every half an hour since 5 : 30 in the morning. I already ingested 5 ice creams : Vanilla, vanilla caramel, vanilla with toffee chunks, vanilla with chocolate syrup, and vanilla, again.
I really don't get the idea why I need to wake up so freaking early. Oh yeah, I forgot I have billions of things scattered in every nook and cranny in my room. I've got to fix all my freaking things to place them in my freaking suitcase, bags, and boxes. I got a lot of possessions, mind you . . . hundreds of designer clothes, a whole bunch of perfumes, tons of bags (I like Hermes, by the way), shoes, and mind blowing, wallet breaking, jaw shattering pieces of jewelry. Diamonds, golds and silvers, rubies, sapphires, opals . . . I probably have the birthstones completed, I think.I let my thoughts wander off while picking random pieces of clothing.
I was halfway through packing my things for New York when somebody knocked at my door. That's weird, I have three more minutes till my eight ice cream . . . although, I told our butler to stop giving me tempting ice cream because I can feel that sore throat building up. I sat down at my messy bed.
"Enter . . ." I mumbled.
"It's time to eat, sweetheart." Mom, no doubt. I smiled, thinking about her thoughtfulness and all that. I'm so proud of my mom.
"Coming!" I said, my thoughts filled with fatty chunks of bacon. Packing my things up is not an easy business so I really need to eat a lot to maintain my high energy to finish the war with my things. I stood up and straightened my green gossamer dress.
"Oh, Mom . . . I do have something to tell you and dad, by the way." I took a deep breath.
My mother looked at me with her toffee colored eyes. My mother knows everything, it seems. She said that she can see right through people . . . she can read their innermost thoughts, feelings, and all that. I don't have to explain my self to her. She can understand me better that any people who have tried to.
"Sure thing, Nataliya . . . " She smiled at me. One look in her eyes . . . she knew what I will be talking about later and she does not have any objections to it. We left my room silently though my thoughts were not.
There were several unsaid things. Today, November 6, 2009, I have to make my decision. Or THEIR decision. But, of course, I would not. Somehow, I will tell them that I'm not . . . No, I won't tell them that I'm not ready . . . I'll tell them that I don't want to marry Pierre. The idea of sharing Pierre's story is quite . . . well, it's unacceptable in my choices. That option will hurt Pierre. Monsieur Rousseau is a hard man, no question 'bout that. The only time I visited their restaurant, I saw Monsieur Alphonse beating up his crew. Beating with words, okay. I use a figure of speech.
After all the things Pierre have done for me . . . I just can't bear the idea of hurting him. I just can't.
Dining Room. Huff.
My mother quickly took the seat on the right of my father. The tension in the room . . . you can literally feel it zapping at your nerves. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt.
Brace yourself Natalie, I told myself. There were five people eating happily around our glass table exported from Italy.
"Good morning, my dear Nataliya," Monsieur Rousseau said. He smiled widely at me, revealing his oddly mismatched teeth. I nodded at him as I walk towards the seat beside Felicia who was sitting at the right side of my mother. Again, I found my self facing Pierre.
YOU ARE READING
Single Soul (The first of Single Chronicles)
Fantasía"When you wake up, did you know that you will die by dusk? No? Well I do. I don't know when you were born but I know when you will die, how gruesome your death will be." ...
