The Book Thief 》Hemmings A.U

1.00

     "KENDALL! HOW MANY TIMES do I have to tell you to put your laundry away as soon as you get it?" My mother yells, setting a basket down on my bed. It presses against my toes and I shush her, shoving my pointer finger in her direction. Don't lose it, don't lose it, don't lose it.

     "Mom, I told you that I needed to be alone for a while so that I could have time to think and finish what I'm doing." Then, in the blink of an eye, my train of thought has been crushed because of the God forsaken laundry. "Now I just lost my idea. Thanks a lot." I grumble, tucking my feet under my legs.

     "Honey, you've been working on that for months now and I gave you that load of laundry last week. And now here's another one for you to put away." She flips the basket over and dumps the contents on top of my bed, burying my note cards and post its and just about everything else on my bed.

     "But you're moving all of my stuff around and I need to focus. Please, just go back downstairs," I sigh, looking up at her with a frown upon my lips.

    "What you need is to get out of this room."

     "I do leave." I sigh, angry that she's pacing the room, sending sideways glances all over the place. I didn't get irritated by many things, but I really didn't appreciate someone coming into my personal space and running their mouths about what I was doing wrong. It was my room, it should look the way I wanted it to. Even if it did look like an avalanche had sent the contents of the small space every which way.

      I was usually much cleaner, but I needed to finish my contest entry. Time was ticking and I still needed Lucy, my best friend, to proofread for me. She was a slow reader, but she was good at critiquing. Which meant I needed to finish fast; so laundry wasn't exactly at the top of my to do list.

     "Sure, maybe to get food you do." She says, pursing her lips as she balances the basket in one hand and pulls open my curtains with the other. I groan and swiftly pluck a pillow up from my left side, burying my head in it.

    "Writer's don't like sunlight." I muffle into my pillow, wishing she would leave me to my mess and darkness.

    "A lot of writer's also have depression and end up killing themselves. Maybe some sunlight would have helped with that. What was that one writer you really like who killed herself, the one that wrote the bell can?"

     "It was The Bell Jar, Mom! I mean, seriously, it's like you and Dad try to say things incorrectly. By the way, Sylvia Plath was brilliant, and she didn't need any sunlight to aide in her intelligence. Did you ever think that maybe writers have emotional difficulties because our mothers don't put our laundry away?" I say pointedly, shifting my position on my bed, and trying to prop my pillows up.

     It was practically impossible to find a position that was comfortable for more than five minutes , which was beyond annoying. There's about a gazillion sex positions, yet we can't have at least one comfortable position for idle activities like writing. It was ridiculous. "Don't think of it so much as writer's have depression, more like those with depression write. It's an outlet."

    "That's the exact same thing backwards, Kendall." She pauses for a second, her eyebrows furrowing together. "So you're depressed?"

     "Only because you're forcing me to complete mundane tasks like putting away laundry when I have to finish this book and I don't even have a name yet and if I don't reach the deadline I won't get the scho-"

     "Fine, fine. I'll put away your damn laundry." I smile as she groans, pulling open my drawers and quickly stuffing my clothes inside.

     "Thanks, Mom. Hey, what do you think of the name Casual Affair?" I puff out my bottom lip and blow upwards, trying to get my hair to stop sticking to my tongue.