My eyes open to a white wooden fan spinning slowly. There is a familiar weight beside me that creates a rising irritation in my very spirit.
"Chihiro..." I groan, rolling over to come face to face with my inconveniently large black cat.
"What did I tell you about jumping on the bed at night?"
She meows, showing me pure irritation in her face.
"Or ever!"
I roll out of bed but Chihiro still remains. In fact, she goes back to sleep.
The sun shines through the trees outside of my window panes creating a calming morning oasis in my room. I walk closer and press my fingertips against the pane aimlessly.
Trees.
More trees.
And even more trees.
If you've ever had the unfortunate chance to see Twilight, Edward Cullen's house, is essentially my house. The movie is disgustingly cringey, but the Hoke house is beautiful.
And best of all- its away from everyone and everything.
"I wonder what I'm gonna do today." I speak softly to myself.
Each day feels like an empty repeat of the next. Nevertheless. I can't complain. Nice house, nice friends, nice...life?
Despite my thoughts I drag myself into the bathroom and to shower and get ready for the day- whatever my day is. Staring into my reflection in the window afterwords is weird.
"Like damn, I'm a human."
A weird looking human considering that I have an orangish-golden streak of color in different parts of my hair, most prominently- the middle. The rest is jet black. I've tried scrubbing the color out but it never washed away. It's been this way for as long as I can remember- which isn't much.
I feel no urgency to do anything special to my hair so I fight with my un-brushed curls to put it in a high ponytail that only highlights my skunk-like streak.
Above my sink and mirror is a medicine cabinet that's filled with band-aids. I'm clumsy but not extremely accident prone but I do have something that I'd rather nobody knew about. Plucking a Spongebob Squarepants bandage from the box, I eye the empty space above my permanent marking on the outer side of my arm. The marking that is present on my skin is the number 18 because I, obviously, am 18. The empty space should have another number in bold print.
Everyone here does.
Numbers mean everything. That number written in our skins dictate where and what we live, where and how we live, if we work or not and where, who we hang out with, and in sum- our entire lives. As with most things, the higher the number the better. Those with numbers in the middle- 45 to 65 live pretty decent lives. Normal house, probably in some nearby suburb or on the very edge of the city if they're around the 70 number. Once you're past 80 then you're considered rich or upper middle class. They live in nice condos in the city or on the lower levels of the penthouses clustered in the upper West Side of the city. WHo lives in the highest floors? If you guessed those with 90 or above then you would be correct. Those in the 90's have the best of the best. The best clothes, the best housing, the best food, they don't work, and they have all the time in the world to lollygag and live it up in their riches. On the flip side- the 30s live in smaller homes with not as much food as others and they have to work if they want to get said food. They have leisure activities but rarely have time to take part in them. Just like the 90's, those anywhere between 1 and 25 have it the worst. Their houses are the smallest, if they have one. The food that they work for is rarely any good and they pretty much never have time for any activities outside of working and sleeping. They live in the slums of the city or in farms far away from the city.
I don't have a number and I don't know why. I have a nice house hidden in the trees, I have a nice car, a bunch of nice clothes, and food. I try not to focus on my numberr- or lack thereof- because it's never given me any problems and as long as nobody else knows then I can assume I never will. I slap on the bandage and return back to my room where I pick out an outfit from my closet.
Button down blouse paired with a cropped t-shirt complimented with a pair of plaid pants and black Doc Martins. I top it all off with a single dangly cross earring and a couple of rings on my slender fingers.
"This is it." I compliment myself in the mirror.
The soft carpet beneath my feet rumbles and my walls vibrate causing Chihiro to shoot to her feet and race out of the room.
"What the he-" I peer around the body mirror and outside the window. Through the trees I spot the rear of a white convertible. Very few people know where I live and the few that do know- always disrupt my peace.
