Ninety Nine Nights

One sunny Saturday in September, she fell to the floor, she was not moving nor breathing and time seemingly stopped with her. Nothing was ever the same again.

Dolores had been sick for quite some time now and so had I. Today was the first day in three months I'd be able to see her.

I've been avoiding Dolores, unable to combobulate the words to say to her, I'm unable to comprehend or accept why she of all people was dying.

I hadn't a friend in the world after Dolores fell ill, though I settled for hanging out with a few trolls.

Our town had one hospital and its miles out of my way, my parents would never let me go anywhere further than a block and they were far to busy to drive me anywhere. I've never been one to follow rules.

My parents don't trust me and I don't trust them.

The sun greeted me this morning, promise nothing but mild tempered weather.

I put on a wrinkled dark blue tank top and my favorite pair of jeans.

I love these jeans because I'm the only one wearing this type around here. They're not quite jeans and not quite leggings, they're comfortable.

The one thing I'd asked my mom to do is wake me up at seven sharp, and its now eight thirty and the house is empty.

My mood bracelet is set to purple but its clearly broken, it should be set to red, I'm distraught today like most days.

I refuse to be picky about my appearance though my mom bothers me everyday about it. I'm not the one with the problem, I think I'm beautiful, its society that's ugly.

Yesterday I promised myself today would be different, I'd be positive, but today often seems to be a repetition of yesterday, new things rarely arise.

I pack a hoodie and the lunch for two I'd prepared the night before in to my plaid, butterfly sticker covered backpack as well as many things I'd need on my journey today.

Knowing how much Dolores loves my cooking I hadn't much choice but to cook, though I hate cooking.

Our town is prone to random weather, I make sure I'm prepared for anything.

I find my sky blue camera and flip through my photos. Every photo of me is terrible, I never smile, the camera loves Dolores though.

Quickly, I rummage through a stack of magazines, looking for something Dolores may like. Dolores is in love with pretty much every boy band, these magazines my mom bought me last week should please her.

Half past nine and I'm already late. I'd been up till near twelve yesterday, my card game had run longer than expected. Playing cards requires a great deal of patience and I clearly am the only one with any.

Mickey has a great poker face, It's as though he has no interest in the game at all.

As usual just when I'm about to beat him he scampers away.

I'm often late. Though I may not be punctual I'm always prepared.

I take forever to get ready. I hate my hair, it bothers me, It's impossible, wavy and thick.

I love the color of my hair though, dirty brown, it suits me so well.

I take one last glance at the mirror hanging on my wall. I'm self-concious. Sometimes I think I'm okay to look at; most times I think I'm not.

Monterose Avenue is full of perfectionists and I'd been the one exception and everyone knew this all to well. Perfect job, perfect house, perfect family; there was a lot of bragging to be done on this block unless I was the topic of discussion and this I knew.