Getting Back a Life

IV. Part IV.

Simple note: Everything in this story is completely fictional. The people, places, as in everything. Any similarities with real life people/places is purely coincidental. XXOO.

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Next morning, while thinking about it, I asked myself why I did that. Why I did not sleep last night. Then I came to the conclusion, that opera musics are driving me nuts. Is that possible?

I prepared breakfast, which is composed of two boxes of cereals and a box of milk. See how great of a person I'm becoming? Clary trotted down the stairs, her hair looking weird. Her eyes looked puffy, and her cheeks red. She was busy rubbing her eyes. Aha! So this is what a girl looks like early in the morning.

I tapped her bowl with a spoon. She sat down, and poured herself a half-bowl full of cereals. She eats it no milk. Hmmm... I cleared my throat, then stopped. I'm sounding like my father. Geez! "No more mythical, fictional or any of those books for you. Especially one with monsters in them," I raised my eyebrows. She looked down at her bowl. "She was real. I saw her. She was looking at me from inside my closet," she mumbled, too low that I strained to hear it. She scooped another spoonful of those colourful cereals.

"Clary."

"Yes?"

"What did I tell you last night?"

She pursed her lips, thoughtfully. "You said there were no monsters."

"And?"

"And, that... there are no girly monsters."

"Does that mean you don't believe me?"

Silence. She did not answer.

"What have you been reading last night?"

"Uh..."

End of Conversation.

So, the whole day went on like nothing happened. I think we were both good at that. Pretending nothing happened.

I was having reflections. I remembered when I was little, I thought there were ogres living under my bed. I even named them. Before, such things make me scared. Now, I just... Then it hit me. The only way for Clary to get over that monster thing.

Later that night, I commenced my big plan. You see, I've had inspiration. When I was little, my mom used to read me bedtime stories. And now that I look back on it, some were sort of stupid. But who cares if they're stupid? They give morals, and good dreams. Surely you won't see a bedtime story that stages an A-B-C murder in it.

I knocked on Clary's door. I opened it without waiting for an answer. She was busy duct-taping her closet door. She glanced at me, and then back on her door.

"Get back to your bed."

She looked at me, then at her door, then back at me. I must've looked pretty convincing because she dropped her tape and went to her bed. She laid down on it, looking at me. I sat on the edge of her bed, fishing the paperback book I managed to extract out of my old, attic-based, dusty moving-out box.

"This is Roald Dahl. You know him?" I said, holding the book up.

She shook her head.

"Well, this book is called Matilda. And I'm going to read it to you. It's a story of a little girl who could read lots of books at a young age, like you. She was special and her mind is, like a built-in calculator."

"Why?" She was looking at me, with her head tilted sideways.

"Maybe 'cause, she made her brain work so much. There was this one time when -"