Cyan Sleeves

Friendly Memories

The buzzing of an alarm clock went off in my ears, and I reached out to turn it off for the sake of my sanity.

Today was a Tuesday, which was essentially the day where I could metaphorically inhale between the hell that is Monday and the outer darkness that is Wednesday. That should make it a good day, but today was another day where I had to deal with people of all shapes, sizes, and mindsets, including Ochre.

Rolling out of the blanket taco I'd wrapped myself in, I swapped my pajamas out for some warm clothes. It wasn't a coincidence that everything I owned had long sleeves (or in the case of my pants, went down to my ankles.) The entire left half of my body had problems, from frostbite scars to the obvious lack of an arm. Covering it up barely helped, but it was better than showing it off to the world. Plus, it was cold outside.

Once I was fully dressed, I went into the bathroom and took note of my appearance. My brown hair was frizzed up from the static of my many blankets, and drool smeared across my freckled, pale face.

Ew.

It took me a few minutes to clean up, applying deodorant and hair gel liberally where it was necessary. When I eventually looked passable, I left and went upstairs.

My mom prepared a meal in the kitchen, humming some old song I didn't know and flipping a brown pancake up into the air. I appreciated her efforts in making breakfast more bearable, but all in all, I still felt completely exhausted.

"Morning, Ozzy!" She kept her eye on the food, but directed her overly cheery voice at me.

"Hi."

"I hope you're ready to take on the day. I know I am!"

"Nope."

"Would you like pancakes today, or Cheerios? We do have both."

"I crave death." I sat down on a chair, and allowed my face to fall onto the table. Please accept my answer and allow me to sleep—

"I'm sorry sweetie, we don't have that kind of cereal." She laughed at the incoming joke I knew she was going to insert. "After all, I'm not a 'cereal killer.' Hah!"

Oh my gosh.

She stayed quiet for a few minutes – was she waiting for me to laugh? – and decided to give me pancakes anyways. I looked up to find the pancakes staring back at me, a smiley face made of berries and syrup adorning the top of the small stack.

"Mom, how do you expect me to eat this? It's too cute." I gave her a fake pouty lip, and she chuckled.

"Well, I know I could just eat you up right now, and you're even cuter, hon!"

Of course, she would say something like that. I rolled my eyes and poked my fork into the topmost pancake, bringing it up to my mouth and taking a bite. It was good: fluffy, soft, and not overcooked.

Moms make the best breakfasts.

While she began eating her own breakfast, she explained the course of events happening today.

"As you know, Dad's at his office early today. I'll still walk you to the bus stop, though." She smiled at me reassuringly, her bright, white, perfect teeth showing. She was the model woman, always making good breakfasts, being overly supportive for her child, and hardly ever being anything other than happy.

She was the perfect stereotype I was expected to live up to, in some way or another.

I yawned, sticking another bite in my mouth before closing it again. A raspberry had hitched a ride in on my pancake. Raspberries were always my favorite.