I woke up to the sound of rain tapping furiously on my window. At first I thought it was my dad, knocking on the door, but he never usually goes near my room. I get up, rubbing my face sleepily, and put my face to the large window that's facing the front lawn of Manor park. The sky was a sordid grey, but the consistency of the tapping brightened my mood slightly. I've always loved rain.
I shuffle downstairs slowly, and let my mind wander while I fixed myself a cup of hot chocolate. I return upstairs with a piping hot cup nursed between my fingers. I sat down on my window seat, and the pink marshmallows bob up and down precariously in the mixture. I sit there for a few minutes, hypnotized by the falling raindrops that my eyes would try to follow. They always fell to fast for my eyes to track. It's almost nine, and I wonder where my father is. Exactly a month ago, he left a message taped to the kitchen door saying that he wouldn't be back for a while. I wasn't too suspicious at the time, for he's always busy because of work commitments and appointments and meetings, but a month was a very long time. I've never been on my own for more than two weeks. I've never met my mother, and spending nights having dinner at the table was way better than spending it alone watching crap television.
I got up reluctantly from my seat, warm from the heat of my body. I still wore my pink jammies, and it was already past nine. Time to get started studying, I thought. I was home schooled, by this lovely ex-teacher who is like I swear, past 70 years old. She's been the only teacher as far as I can remember, and Rosaline has been totally amazing. She comes three days a week, and leaves me work to do on the other days. We've been together for so long that we've settled into a routine that balances on trust- detention doesn't work when your home-schooled.
I changed into a pair of pale blue skinny jeans and a white cashmere top, and gathered my studying stuff. I usually studied at the dining room, which was downstairs and had a massive long oak table that’s always used in old movies. I settled down, popped my head phones in, and dug into some math problems. Maths is my weakest subject, but Rosaline's work is advanced for my year group.
I must admit, I don't have much of a social life. My father's quite reluctant to see me out in the streets by myself with friends, for somehow his job being an international ambassador for the country 'puts me in danger'. But I've gotten used to it, even if I did protest a little (quite a lot, actually) after I began home schooling after third grade. But my dad has made up for it heaps. Our house is huge, with rooms that are nice and big but empty, and grounds that are good to look at but not for running on. I often go swimming in the Olympic sized back yard pool in summer, and sit under the stars while peace and quiet ran amok around me. The best part about my home though, is the library. It almost makes up for the lack of friends. Almost.
The ceiling of the library extends a long way up. It smells of the sweet scent of books and paper and knowledge, and hums with the excitement of long lost journeys and the anticipation of new adventures. It's filled with rows and rows of books, small, fat and thin, old, yellow and new. It's my safe haven, this library, and my favourite place in the world. Many delightful evenings were spent here, laughing along with my literary friends and quenching my desire for companionship between the fragile pages of a book. It was in this room that I first felt love, passion and sadness, where I first learnt of a world without boundaries.
