Slight Detours | Wattys 2015

(16) ALLY

"Good morning, sunshine," I hear someone say, nudging my arm.

"Go away," I protest in a muffled reply as I bury myself deeper into the warm, fuzzy covers. And by the way, when I say bury, I mean bury. Minus the coffin, of course, but you get what I mean.

You see, I hate mornings. One thing you have to know about me is that I, as a wholly intelligent being, refuse to function within two hours of proper awakening. In my book, 'proper awakening' meant getting out of bed which, more often than not, came with a truckload of cursing and incoherent replies.

Now, why would I put such laughable restrictions on myself, you ask? Let me tell you, it's a long story.

Being especially gifted child I was, I'd managed to convince my parents that I was, in fact, a grown lady and was ready for the explanation I'd been waiting for over a span of two years. They were clueless with respect to my interests, so what'd said next was rather shocking experience for both of them.

As a child, parents never really understood you. Albeit, they'd nod and give some form of encouragement (in my parents' case, it was more nodding) but the essence of childhood motives was an insurmountable cypher, unable to being interpreted accurately by the adult mind.

With that, this was the question I'd posed: Was I a vampire?

I know, I know. It was a stupid question, one I shouldn't have asked in the first place. Back then, it'd made so much sense. I was unbelievably pale as a child, so pale, in fact, that I'd blended in with our house's white walls. Another reason was that I loathed sunlight, and on several occasions found myself getting scorched skin after a significant amount of time outside.

This still does happen, actually. Thankfully, however, to a lesser degree or I wouldn't be able to, you know, live in California.

How useful that would've been, though. It probably saved me from three or four unwanted trips to the beach. Not that there were any beaches in New York, but my friends liked driving. Especially when our destination was a beach. Eventually, when the third and fourth times had rolled around, I'd learned to compensate with an excessive amount of sunblock and skin revitalizer.

Last but not the least, though, was my interest for blood. Take note – interest, not hunger for it. Don't get me wrong, I was neither a sadist nor a murder, there was just something about it that instinctively got my adrenaline pumping. In a good way, obviously, but excitement was too much of an exaggeration. A better term would be expectant.

Maybe this had something to do with the first time I'd experienced seeing my own blood under a microscope, or maybe it was due to an excessive amount of iron intake, either way, loving blood wasn't a normal attribute and merited me the obtuse nickname "Al the Vamp."

Considering all these circumstances, the converging paths ultimately led to me questioning if I did belong to the blood-feeding race, but as predicted, I had received two stern noes for an answer. I clearly remember my father saying these exact words, "If our family were to be mythical creatures, we'd be werewolves."

My mom disapproved, arguing that werewolves were mediocre compared to the elven. I sided with neither of them, confused with the concept that a werewolf plus an elf equaled a vampire.

Anyways, the point was, nothing would make me get out of this bed. Absolutely nothing. Not even-

"I made you pancakes," The same male voice coaxes. Coincidentally, that happened to be my weakness. Back home, my morning meals consisted of one thing: pancakes.

It was a myth that all New Yorkers were healthy eaters. I mean, Dad and I pigged out nearly every weekend. Like surfing and beaching were Californian's ways of relaxing, stuffing ourselves with gigantic slices of Giovanni's famous pepperoni pizza was ours. But, of course, there were other tourist destinations like the Museum of Natural History, Fashion Week and Broadway, but it was inevitable that food would always win the battle for supremacy.