Chaos Descending

Pickle Time

Chapter 3— Pickle Time

I glanced around my newly redecorated room as I kicked off the aqua blue down-filled comforter and climbed out of bed. Between de-cluttering my entire room so everything was neat and organized, not to mention creating a spa-like atmosphere with things like lavender aromatherapy and tons of plants, it was obvious my mom had gone to a lot of trouble to make the space feel peaceful and relaxed. Fat lot of good it did. I was as restless as a couple of cats thrown into a swimming hole. Part of me, a really, really big part missed my old room that was anything but Zen-like.

What's so wrong with the color black anyway?

I mean, despite the fact that it made me think about the darkness trying to infiltrate my very soul, while the nagging feelings of hunger threatened to consume me whole. Welcome to my new normal.

I tried to look on the bright side. If  there was even a bright side. Who knows, maybe it was a good thing that Thomas and Vycandor weren't around at the moment. I'm always cranky when I first wake up. And today...well, I might just bite the head off the first person who pisses me off. Like, literally. Which would totally not be my fault. I can't be held accountable for the things I do before caffeine hits my bloodstream. Except now, thanks to Lisette, I no longer craved my favorite morning beverage. Not even a little.

The realization really chapped my ass. There was just no two ways around it. I had to find a way to remove the curse. Either that or give up coffee forever.

I made a face. "As if."

Opening the doors to my walk-in closet with a renewed sense of purpose, I still couldn't help but marvel at the massive selection of new clothes. Organized by color and heavily steeped in a wide assortment of flannels, my mom knew it was a waste of money to buy me anything except varying shades of whites, blacks, and grays, with just a sprinkling of muted tones in reds, greens, and navy blues. My taste for style, or lack there of, was seemingly the only thing that hadn't been affected by the curse. 

No longer bothered with feeling inferior in the fashion department, I opted for the laid-back boyfriend fit of a red and black buffalo plaid flannel worn over a white, long sleeved Henley T-shirt with faux button detailing. For pants, I picked out a pair of faded black skinny jeans that were already perfectly destroyed in both knees and checked the fit in the full-length mirror. I may have been bringing sexy back the way the stretch denim sculpted my bottom, but front tucking only half of the Henley to de-emphasize the silhouette said grunge-city all the way.

Just how I liked it. Uber messy. However, upon closer inspection, something was definitely missing.

I stuffed my sock-less feet in a worn pair of black moccasins before rummaging through my dresser to score a wadded up navy blue and red hooded flannel shirt in all its musty, moth-holed glory and tied it tightly around my waist. One can never wear too much flannel. That's my motto anyway.

Heading into the bathroom to brush my fang less teeth, I didn't bother to comb my hair. As usual, my waist length flaming-red locks couldn't be tamed. Plus the fact that the ends of my bangs pretty much covered my entire face meant I didn't have to worry about applying make-up. Bonus!  

By the time I found my mom downstairs, she was dressed in a comfy champagne pink knit dress with matching high heels and standing in front of the stove cooking an enormous pot of potatoes.

"How many people are you expecting?" I peeked outside and it seemed like every volunteer that worked at the farm, including their families, were planning on eating Thanksgiving dinner with us. No wonder my mom needed help.